A season of cold nights

than a man,He had wishessimple and easy to fillthat I can.He talked politeand smiled delicate,his words weresoft, Measuredand flawlessly accurate,Heavenly divinewas his grace,warm and cosywere his brace.Little did I findin him, a faultRarest of rare,My king was great.

A widow’s forehead.None to stare at it,None to share with herNone to think of herPleasure or pain,Loss or gain,She is no one’s possessionAny more.

but an artificial,manmade disaster.People loved tohate eachother.To see differencesinstead of similiesbecome a fashion,an art of life.And the Earthof aspirations foreverything heavenlyturned into a hell.

She was so shy ever..Could not speak her best.Careful about me..Although she was then,Never fetched a glassWhen my sands needed rain.I was in a zooFull of elephants, bullsI was only a rabbitSmall, and weak in pulse..

Rendered with heartBrings spring on Earth.Fulfilling.

Words are Gods.Words are Lords.Words are Food, shelter, Clothing,Words are everything for some.But words to meare to convey ideaslike baits for fisheslike snares for the hare,if the hare is caught,what is the snare of use?if ideas are graspedwhy bother for words? ?