The Winter

The valley is silent, gloomy
The majestic peaks are aloof –
The pines, birches and oaks
Are wet, drooping, subdued.
The deserted, slippery lane
Climbs slowly to the cottage,
Where lazy hands prod
The dying embers back to life.
The logs gaze back, sullenly,
Without warmth or intimacy,
And the ancient clock ticks on,
Without any conviction.
As the memories lazily flit by
Bringing neither joy, nor hope,
The cheerless window wonders why
The winter is so bitter this year.

About Abhishek

I will let the blog speak for itself...or, at times, for me. View all posts by Abhishek

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