Life goes on as time passes.

The poetry flies,

Songs die.

The loneliness has now grasped her heart

out of her sweet life.

The warm rain thrumming

against the window

has announced its first battle at midnight;

Quivering lips, swollen eyes—

This heart yearns for those old touches,

This ear hears the piano's lost rhythm

one summer noon.

And now all are gone.

The early morning scent doesn't drive her unlike then,

She knows the torn pages bleed her eyes,

The gossip she hears—

Gosh! They are dead!

The ashes fly

towards her heart where lies

The ballad of void heart!

Tender hours somehow commence

the broken tears, early wounds,

Enough!

She can't bear long,

as the lights on the quiet rooms left

at the very beginning where she had started.