Winter کے بول

The streets are streamlets A sound of little waters, on the roof, against the wall And all we hear and feel and know and see Is this cold winter day And in this sad winter journey There’s a sense of loneliness And the ghost of a cliché Hanging over my quill And it’s staring at me Trying to convince me I’m not good enough Not good enough Greetings to all who dream! To us, poor poets More or less mad, more or less foolish