With the advent of spring,
You would see the butterflies dance.
Upon the juicy flowers,
In the fragrant bowers.
The trees which had lost their colour,
Are once again green.
And the once-silent jungles,
Are now never serene.
The lakes which had once frozen in winters,
Are now never dry.
And the cuckoos which had drowned in their slumbers,
Now at the sunrise cry.
The soft and beautiful scenery of spring,
Dwells deep within my heart.
Engraving in it the memories,
Which are now never to part.
YOU ARE READING
When Will the Moon Die?
PoetryIf Moon was a Child and spring his youth, He'd cry for a flower and die of sloth.
