The early winter afternoon singths
A rosy song for the balmy day,
The lyricist with littlest lines,
Whose beauty shines with silvery sunny rays.
Stoic storks having Spanish siesta,
While her cooings voice floral pink,
Oh, the snaily standstill fiesta!
The sages, guess what they think?
The sky’s muse from above,
With fancy-lorn eyes,
Bless-lorn it doth bow,
Vow! Small sashaying misty blessings.
And the evening all fancy-free!
Because whatever we can imagine
Becometh real with a glee,
With luxuriating steps she doth begin.
Spread out emotional landscape,
Protruding paw in friendship,
Its wild instinct nobody can escape,
And congratulating passes fresh air’s whiff.
The softy with its soft words
To her–the love-lorn farmer girl,
Whose fun and floridity buds
Open like a robust-hued pearl.
What a delicate weather it is!
As if clime is opening its taste buds,
Bravo be the beauty’s bliss!
Petal power smiles above the muds.
Oh the evening like a chubby child;
Eye catcher and pleasantly plump,
Half listens to the sun’s mild
Request for the reddish slump.
The evening with such rhythm
As the feministic ease of a belly dancer,–
The soul-stifler to its fathom;
Wheezing meteor by the curvy winker.
Therapeutic it seems
To the day’s bumps and bruises,
The day which wailed thinly, now beams
Gossipy; leisure-lorn it cruises.
Too quiet like serenest shower;
The fair hussy without being fussy,
Like Chrysanthemums for Christmas
Show no heed to the bee’s hurry.
Everything as if meditation brained,
And heart with all its waters coloured,
While foxy logic all drained,
As if a cradle from heaven gets lowered.
And when the night starts to fall,
Vanishing paradise doth it seem, aye!
While, the paradise giving a call,
‘Say me not a weepy-eyed bye’.
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