This is my best friend’s sweet little piece of writing.
Give it a read.

the color bucket

The fog of night
seems infinite.
I wonder what’s the heaviness that I feel;
The whistling winds tell me, “It’s the winter’s chill”.

As a kid, I would often ask why winter has to come every time and make things slow and grim? Why the nature cannot retain the warmth of summer and the colours of spring? Why is it that the calm of the fall has to turn into the silence of cold? I had no answers.

I was grateful to the gleaming rays of sun shining on her face; to the wind, playing with her hair midst a delicate fragrance riding the murmur of the stream.
The clouds weren’t dark. The winds sang melodies. Her eyes were the deepest oceans. Her hold was the heaviest thing. And the cornfield, most reassuring place.

But alas! It’s all a memory now. The winds are sorrowful. The night, deeper than oceans…

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