I stand before the
Window tracing the
Marble set in the wall
Of memory water flows
From the tear ducts
Of certainty how the
Grass once was so
Green wither away
And how did the
Nightingales of longing
Turn in to a lost memory
And the sickle of love
In to a broken thing
And here I am waiting
For a moment of longing
To mend all that the
Spiders of memory
Have been ruined .
