Their hearts are quiescent volcanoes
Rooted into no man’s land
Rushed naked into the winter
With a hunger become too real
Set the Sun as the topmost watcher
For the longest day to come
The rays strike here in the muted sanctum
Where grief is the deepest type
And where are they
At nights we have no dreams
Settled in the rain front
As saline drops from the sky
Across the Earth
And laconic clauses we share
Our roots are dead in our own courtyard
Past loves beseeched to reborn
South wind might call them home
From parables to reality
From sons to elderly
Choir of legions repeat their name
To long, not to liberate
And comes without exception
The spring of funerals
The summer is for long goodbyes
The fall for nostalgy
And the wailing hollow grounds
Of young December
Rush-hour in the memory lane
