When the winter strikes midnight
with communicable darkness,
the walls start crumbling underneath--
scratchy worn out souls;
itching to skin-out every shred of flesh,
to serve the swinging, sparkling threads it once gazed upon;
the lamentation of voices,
that cracking old joke;
that young princess and her sloppy blushing nose!
i suppose what prevails in the marking of home,
the scent incarnates every inch of an art,
why aren't stones crying they are bearing our fall,
like the dormant Chinars keeping an eye-out!
sometimes, the hell dwells in the serene waterfall,
my call is just a stir that doesn't shake them all,
but keeps faith of a voice,
echoing from present from past.

© ZiaD