In the wee hours of solitude,
Even the rustling of leaves has stopped.
A drop of sleeping memory trickles
In the tinkling chasm of the heart.
Quail cry of some bygone emotion
Has just escaped from a dilapidated dream.
I Dare Feel… So I Dare Write…
In the wee hours of solitude,
Even the rustling of leaves has stopped.
A drop of sleeping memory trickles
In the tinkling chasm of the heart.
Quail cry of some bygone emotion
Has just escaped from a dilapidated dream.