Love was when it was for no reason,
The season of yellow flowers.
When the reason of love was just “love”
No expectations, no hopes of returns.
Just to fly and flutter in the cold breeze of love.
To flutter among the yellow flowers which
smelt and felt of love.
That was a time,
not long before…

Now, like the pages of this book,
I have lost the interest to go over them.
The interest to relish and relive.
I have passed on.
Into what, I don’t know.
May be the passage is into a rhythmic monotony.
A monotony which even makes you forget
to feel and love.
Or maybe it’s somewhere there.
May be sometime it may fly back like a white little feather,
And I’ll smile again with stars in my eyes and flowers in my heart.
Or may be it just flew away,
to never return…