Dear Shadows, Are You Sad?

Those long, dark shadows cast on the shimmery lake,

shadows of trees, of the lush green field,

of people, animals, and the vast blue sky,

or of that minuscule dot of an ant or a high-flying bird,

so many cast on surfaces aplenty,

thought to itself one fine day,

how does it feel to be on the other side, to be real and actually feel,

the cold winds caress each and every sense,

to hear the laughter and the sights, the sounds, 

to feel the feeling rather than only black mirroring all the goodness around,

on a multitude of surfaces, twisting, turning and bending, blurring and going blank,

alas.

But only for those painters who brushes those shadows with so much care,

blurring the reality, letting their imagination flow intricately through the dark shades,

for those poets whose dreamy eyes visualize the shadowy spectacle on the river bed,

their lips move in subconscious amazement,

and that, and that is what makes the shadow,

smile that bright smile, believing a little more,

on its existence.

After all, shadows are constant companions,

even if there's no one, you'll always have your shadow travelling with you.