Poem

On a misty morning, I mourn

The loss of paradise of my solitude,
The joy of chill of a gentle breeze

Is snatched by my rectitude,

The tea loses its heat

Due to neglect and goes cold,
I burn my thoughts to keep

My heart warm, as time rolled,

With a dread, I feel the wind pace up

And the fog thicken, hither,
I guard the remnants of my
Treasure, and not let them wither,

Into the thinning grayness
Saunter the night and its mare,
The sun comes out, in earnest
To repair the dawn's despair,

The light stirs its strings to
Play a duet with the shadow,
The first song pours in me,
Filling my soul with glow,

# SP Singh