…it was already Spring,
The frosty pelts had dwindled us,
I was lost in your spirit of upbringing,
as your presence was too sumptuous.
The arrogance of torture,
the chronicles of tiredness,
all allured to your departure,
with life in its very own clearness.
It is not I was abbe.
My heart pondered in vain.
Only to realize the journey was a lot paddy,
and to mitigate all the pain.
Well, I was plying in my dark hollowness,
where only I had the permission to visit.
My consecration to solemness,
That I had missed every minute.