#109 The Wind Of Times...

Lost in the dust

of those gloomy days,

my eyes were filled

with memories of soft clay..

Those broken easily by a

sudden gust of wind,

travelling east to west

in a rush, like a sprint..

Someone told me

it does that every now and then,

as if it is the paper

it is the pen..

And will be consumed, not spared

whoever comes in its way,

I realized the wind is for the words

the time does this anyway..