The soul laments,
Frozen by the cold,
For in the thick night,
Of a belated spring.
The euphonic music,
Won’t be able to arrive,
To the soul that love,
The very same song.
The everlasting ambit,
As bitter as it were,
Will never let them cherish
The same music that they love.
This post first appeared on When Dreams Die | We Must Suffer, Suffer Into Trut, please read the originial post: here
