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1 " Spring Every time, in the same way, the worldmolds flower buds of yellow mustard from a lump of gold,and the breeze holds them in its undulations.Every time, in the same way, branchesladen with sprouting leaves,hug the interweaving pathways. What do they think? Who knows.Every time, in the same way, raindropsfiltering through clouds brimming with colourcome to rattle against the copper sheet that spreads into the distance.Every year, a season, just like this,every time, this scent of absence,every morning, these harsh tears. When will the times of mourning come? Majeed Amjad "
― Majeed Amjad
