Something Sad

There is something sad in almost everything.

In the dark expanse of the sky
In the curling smoke which in its graceful way rises up black from a dirty, worn-out chimney
In the pebbles on dusty streets
In every blade of grass swayed by the lazy wind,
In the branches stripped bare

In buildings and garages lay abandoned and empty, in the coating dust blanketing mugs and glasses
In the specks of dust swirling in the surrounding overused air, visible by a weak glimmer of sunlight penetrating the window
In the glow-in-the-dark stars, which fell from the ceiling, not strong enough to hold themselves from falling
In the river so murky and green and gray, in the puddles and its stillness

In clothes and bottles and colognes and tins and containers
In a discarded cigarette which has a shoe's mark imprinted on it
In the sands
In the birds crisscrossing the sky
In the bobbing boats carried by the course of waves

In the people. In the future. In our every heart.

 There is something sad in, if not all, almost everything.