The Dead Winter

Last winter was hollow
an empty like sphere which has no music
but in wilderness it finds an echo
more echoes of itself
make the winter silent
I opened the letter scented
in sweet essence
nonetheless love was the recipient of it
I realise how carefree were thoughts
like thinkers of weather
there was slight hesitation
in telling about the clouds
and the forlorn seas
I remember the days were dead
matter of all the seasons
that rained in silence
I reread the sentence
it was faithfully yours
which I mistook for
the unfaithful all the sobs
as in life love strangles the lovers
who lead astray on the path
in belief it is all over
for the start.


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