Yet again, the world dances to the glory of her tulips
masking the blush of her face with soiled hands, she mourns.
Vivid and vivacious, her crimsons wake up to vernal spring,
in solitude, she wails for the buds that ne’er bloomed.
Unfolding her laden arms, she embraces April showers
her heart pounds as doves glide and nest on her meadows.
Pretty as a picture, a seventh heaven to one and all,
she calls for the last May flora, that smelt no summer.
Her lakes hold the Sun and cascades tease her curves
A gentle caress rouses a bruise and in abyss she falls.
‘What’re the untold tales, my wounded Paradise?’
Ah! The voiceless whispers of the besmirched belles.
The changing colours change her emergence; the season of heart changes no more,
with a disguise of delight, she nurtures the desire of timeless peace . Or is it just lore!