Seated around the fire,
tapping to the woods, clapping to the tunes,
stood waving on toe tips,
struggle of unclear dessert of ballads,
unknown to the shepherds,
at pastoral lyrical winds.
Old long times,
springs out of flames,
remains as ashes,
adds into winds,
and blows with the breeze.
A blade tip cannot kill the memory…
✍️Rwrites