This loss of gloom,
Makes not flowers bloom,
Has been followed by happiness,
And much before that, contentment,
But at least that much was beneficial,
Albeit inconvenient, withering the reserves,
A thin fragrance of the path's memory.
The fruits have depleted, stomped to
perfection,
No more turning back, no more going
forward,
Without a miracle, a miracle indeed,
The name of which, always has been Love.
No comments:
Post a Comment