The waft and the sense of longings
Few composed songs, few un
ruled lines and few skipped battered heart beats
I sank in the bent of an
enchanted melancholic dream
My voices are my own inner
lies
As I bleed, I write
Grains in hourglass, fails to
fall…soaked with miseries, an index of utmost wrench by gone
A heavy laden weaken heart
Still calls for you, still reminiscence
for that purity
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