I read a blues song on a wall. A replicate of human emotion.

Riming with time. Wishing for happiness, on a nice day. It is thinking about souls' journey. In a mile showcase of joy, and sadness. A mix bag of life. Under a pear tree. There is a raining hour; a road to love. But someone thinks it is an eye emotion. A place kisses fall for joy. But no one is there. A couple left their home. To walk on new hills. Leaving a blues song on a wall. A mind tune of a late day is culture.

Time could not be far off. Abandoned by users of its strength. Walking from ripe colored fruits. They seem like, beauty selling pears, and a merchant buying them. Like a rainbow nursery. Plants surviving heat. The blues voice, runs the show; under shady groves. Heat in the kitchen. It is a mix bag of life. The birth of the blues is between, plantation anger, and a kitchen drama. Falling on a cotton market. Coloring the minds, and turning them into silky clothes. Textured smoothly on smiling faces, which sometimes gleam in tears. Such is the story of slavery. A day fly in the blues; like an eagle soughing for a forest song. While it is looking for a river. The blues swing is a bag, from a cotton field. It is another art form, created by smart people; during a real hard time.