He is like dew on lush green; precious. As heavy snow fall of night melts partially with the arrival of sun in the morning, his one glance melts year old frozen hesitations. With heavy strokes as those solitary branches shake off the dust of snow, the sound of his footsteps wipes out all the fear from within. His touch, as shrilling as cold wind, freezes the soul. As the nightingale from Keats' poetry fills melancholic perfume in air during winter night, his voice pours a mellifluous symphony all around leaving a lyrical flow to swing in. Seldom did the winter know how gorgeous it can appear when the darkness falls. With the rising moon the silvery glow reigns, giving the grayish layer an ethnic touch. How awestruck the drowsy traveler remains only the beguiling night knows. Likely, his ponderous silence and weepy hushes reveal the dense secret he hides within. His warm breathes melt down the curtains of shame to exhale out the naked feelings in most affectionate way ever. Winter appeared in its most astonishing attire that year which left the most pious feeling to grow with passing time. The essence still nourishes as the winter prevails as December knocks.
Things went magically insane the very moment someone's presence rejuvenated life back into the dead city of mine. A gush of wind passed by in the wind hushing some symphony of belongingness. I stood still for a while in amusement looking at the way things were around, all of a sudden. The sick old tree beside the lake had tiny green leaves peeping out from the lifeless branch. The heart sighed after a long; the change was for good. It was almost evening and the dark didn't scare me. The lonely cuckoo was duetting with some other bird which I failed to recognize. My world was getting dipped into the leftover of the sunset, all magical and bright. Almost a month passed since that day. Today, the wind reminded me of that time when he arrived with hands full of amusement, restlessness, sparkles and magic. The wind is crisp and soothing, despite all the heated situations in between. May be it's not the city, may be it's not the wind nor even those golden hues. May be it is ...
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