The Dead Winter

​Last winter was hollow
an empty like sphere which has no music
but in wilderness it finds an echo
more echoes of itself
make the winter silent.

I opened the letter scented
in sweet essence
nonetheless love was the recipient of it.

I realise how carefree were thoughts
like thinkers of weather
there was slight hesitation
in telling about the clouds
and the forlorn seas.

I remember the days were dead
matter of all the seasons
that rained in silence.
​
I reread the sentence
it was faithfully yours
which I mistook for
the unfaithful all the sobs
as in life love strangles the lovers
who lead astray on the path
in belief it is all over
for the start.