The wavering winter
Drops dry leaves to rustle
Cold wind is devoid of moisture
Lips dry over the wet tongue
The year crumbles without a face
Lovers laugh at delayed fate and carve
On the bark of a living tree
It does not know the date
Should there be an arrow?
No more hurt this heart can not hate
Whatever you call as yours
The tree grows with concentric rings
There are poems in every turn or curve
They had drawn a complete heart
Using hand full of eyes.