Each Sunday, before the alarm started ringing,

Before school children would gossip while heading to school,

She would be awake.

She would be awake,

with her hair combed and clothes ironed,

In front of the wooden door:

He would send his usual letter.

His rose-scented Sunday letters to her

With a tinge of pink love,

His gentle touch and smell—

Disclosing her emotions of waiting.

Years pass by, the sunlight faints,

The bushes grow,

And the mailbox remains hungry

For his most awaited hearty letters.

She no longer gets up early,

No longer does she stands out of her house;

Someone calls her for a new "email"—

His "modern" friend.

His email to her—

Like that of dry lips, pale cheeks,

A sullen smile and a dry rose.

The emotions burn, the white walls laugh,

His touch's gone, and so is his scent—

Everything dies as she stares at the screen.