A million verses,
carving the fall.
Yet every time it visits,
it greets me well,
like a fragile newborn.

Never-ending shrouds,
sewn from the weeping clouds.
Seamless in glory,
drenched in agony.

The lengths so white,
warm and so light.
Heavens could hide, in its
folds and its drapes.

Drifting and dashing,
the current so stark.
Once, a Heather,
loved her red frock.

I wish,
in another nightfall,
this starry night,
won’t ever shine;
upon me, ever so,
so bright.


- Aadil Varsh