Thirsting.
Watching,
through closed eyes,
Watching,
the approach.
The approach of distant memories.
Vividly painted with a brush named Scent-
Delicately sculpted by the chisel of Cold-
Proudly stamped by little crows feet,
In the snow.
In the snow.
Lovers spin among swirling red leaves,
Kissing so deep because they know.
Soon their love will harden
and freeze,
much like teardrops
In the snow.
And the thirst goes on.
adivbuddha
nomisyar
