On the coming of your memory
The thunderstorms of your memories:
Quiver the ground of my heart virtually;
It never set me free to live independently,
From the cage, where I am living for centuries.
I neither of can hide and escape:
Myself from its flow ;
Which is running under-mine!
It all the time makes me feel very low.
My soul gets writhe in the longing of the past days
But my heart and brain don’t want mercy pays:
Somehow, I know I have nothing certainly,
But the memories for spending my life lonely. Continue reading “On the coming of your memory”