A cold breeze; yet to turn into a fog
mildly swept amidst bountiful garden
the flowers hushed; 'winter is coming'
they gaze for sun, nowhere to be found
dense sky; filled with cotton clouds
seldom drizzling, tears of pure love;
enthralling the flowers, that doze off,
until the curtains are raised by sunrise
and wake-up call by the chirping cuckoos
the flowers in the frost, live another day.
(07/10/2015, Paris)
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