Everytime, When I think of You
The heart denies The solemn truth manifested to the soul And supplies the crimson ink to my pen, Which vainly attempts to redeem, The days of emerald meadows Where the crickets once sang, Where the hedges laid stealth, And the contagious feelings Downpour copiously in your eyes With glitz and bliss. Now, will this cadaverous wind blow, Through the burning Asia, Glowing Europe, And across the Atlantic, Intruding your casement, Safely echoing, The reminisces of my melancholy twilight?