Synchronic us, silent for many copses gone. Yet never arrive timely at the boulevard. Our story of youth has been diluted with sighs. The roses you planted that old morning are withering. With my dog barking around, another sycamore leaf falls. Yet never arrive at the orient land. The sonnet you held at that sunset is wafting. A falling leaf tells an entire autumn. That road to your soul is winding as that to mine. We are silent for days fleeting.
YOU ARE READING
The monsoon literature
PoetryOur self is always so distant a leap from the surroundings. Literature is the medium of the minority to revolt, to state existence.
