Ripe And Ready To The Eye

It seems that the nature has taken a mortal turn.

The trees stand bare, with new leaves awaiting conception,

The dry winter barks fill their hearts with springs of new wood.

It takes a ring every year to welcome the king of seasons.

The seasons might regularly disagree, in turns of six

they might wreck havoc over the lands that claim to bear them all.

Spring this seventeen is standing on a hyperbole of wreaths.

No parabolic similarity is deigned to be drawn, but just

the one intended. And so far kept discreet, separate but nearby.

Seasons have made this land fertile and the poets barren - barren with words.

Winding The Afternoon

It was like stepping into a world, different and divine -

The terrace was a common scene

And so was the sky hugging the horizon,

And still something was vague and vivid,

Born as if anew and borne like an ancient curse;

Breathing and burning slowly,

Caressing the tomb it's buried in,

One day when it's let loose

It feeds on the world like an obscurus.

It was like standing endlessly through time.

Center Of Warmth

What a thousand sands can't do,

A million might try.

There's a center of warmth deep in the dirt,

And there's motherly love against the grains,

You mayn't find the source hidden within,

You mayn't realise when you miss the discourse.

Pressing through the debris,

A haven comes to life,

One that is warm, one that is cold,

One that is blissful in an inordinate amount.

What a million sands can try,

But only the warmest ones can dare to succeed.