I will write a thousand eulogies,
To mourn the death of my garden.
Where the flowers had bloomed,
Only to be crushed by the cold wind.
The wind took life out of my garden,
But it didn’t kill me,
While I breathed the same air.
The flowers died, it seems,
Out of my own indifference!
Now, in the season of withered leaves,
And dried-up thoughts,
I will paint my garden green,
And the flowers of my imaginations
Will bloom again.
Life is coming back to my garden,
Riding upon the winds from mountains.
I can feel the winds of life,
My spring isn’t too far away.