The Beauty Of Winter

By Harsh Vardhan Singh Rathore

I hear from you and from inside me,

Winter is silent and yet liked hi’,

It’s foggy, it’s faint, it’s cold, and have long-long nights

And an important is missing in its blacks and whites-

an energetic light of actions and rise.

Winter is intelligent but not a genius one,

A synopsis of Sunday but long stretched one,

Of questions of how, when and most important whys,

to adjust and work, and fight and run

Rather than to sleep in eigengrau night,

once.

A season of closeness and talks but not fun,

A season of feelings and blooming relations

akin to those used to be once,

Bit, I know more of me through a deep introspection,

Bit, I know more of you through late night talks,

by the fire we sit and a box of stories

unforgotten past long.

For some the winter is dead,

with all frozen bodies except the beating heart,

A season of stillness and now it’s leaving fast.

The fascination is hidden, in this delusional world,

Where one which like change, where one

which hate it yet.

There is a lady standing

In deep dark woods

Solitary, enticing and eloquent,’

Incumbent of keeping all our secrets,

Singing all our stories,

As calm as none,

And I like it as it is, just.

By Harsh Vardhan Singh Rathore