Being forlorn ...
by Orbindu Ganga

Feuillemort falls in dust

As the autumn arrives,

Looking from the window

Years have gone by,

Trees have no choice

To shed their veins,

Shivering in the cold

Pain had a name written,

Each year as autumn saunters

Waiting are we for the spring,

To see the particles of renaissance

Never to see a speck ...

Rate this poetry.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.