Hopes fly high 'neath this azure sky,
Tendrils of smoke rise from the hearths,
In the throes of ecstasy as they kiss the obscure
Puffs of white in the infinite horizon.
The wind is chill, but irony plays a cruel hand
Its skillfull sleight grips us in its freezing maw
And the golden trickster of noontime
Promises warmth but breaks its oath,
Mocking us as if to say
Springtime is near, springtime is near..
While predatory Winter grins in its dark cave
Its white fangs bared to taste first blood.
Copyright © Ankush Chakrabarty