Wandering on the path of every novel beginning,
I found myself motionless, again and again.
Airs of seasonal strange, as my mind is stolen,
For the once ignited desires - resting frozen.
Inner self, wherein landscapes are failing
Winter's poem, written with a poison pen.
An imminent blow, of the inner winds,
Amidst the warmth, of a wounded tree,
A soulless symphony of all ghastly sounds,
In its serenity, to be howled an agony.
An imminent scream from the endless-to reach bottom
Deafened the gloomy skies, in their grey to be hold
A dirge for the paralysed, (and) unseen fate's fallen
Behind the always-broken wings of a motionless self.