And when he casts his spell,
as if,
lulling the sounds,
quelling the world;
as if,
making the sky bury into the stillness
of the slowly falling, innocent, soft flakes of snow.
And thus, when he casts his spell,
as if,
voicing only what throbs in;
speaking all that flows in,
as if,
telling all the tales from the depth of bosom
to the depth of eyes,
in a language that writes off all its words,
in the sheer beauty of a world
that went still.
And lo! when he casts his spell,
as if,
brightening the blaze that pours in warmth,
amidst
slowly falling, innocent, soft flakes of snow.
3 comments:
a desirous poem, expressed beautiful, but carries a virtue of a short shelf-life emotion.
thanks a bunch meer. Though, I believe that shelf lives are a subject that vary from person to person.
No doubt, I was pronouncing my retrospective!
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