Season Of Sorrow Poem by Nuzhat Fatima

Yet again, the world dances to the glory of her tulips;
masking the blush of her face with soiled hands, she mourns!
Vivid and vivacious, her crimsons wake up to a vernal spring,
In solitude she wails for the buds that ne'er bloomed.

Spreading her laden arms, she embraces the April showers;
her heart pounds as doves glide and nest on her meadows.
Holding a vow of seventh heaven for one and all,
she yearns for the last May flora that smelt no summer.

Her lakes widen and the gush of fresh water teases her curves;
immersing her bruised body for a divine bath, she chokes
Sigh! What makes you restless, my wounded paradise?
Ah! The unvoiced shrieks of the besmirched belles.

The changing colours change her emergence; the season of heart changes no more,
with a disguise of delight, she nurtures the desire of timeless peace. Or is it just lore!