Going crimson, the distant sky:
ebbing-evening-like gold-tinged
shades all over; Streaks of blue
fly by the clouds in the breeze
topping dew-wet tips of dried
grass, grown late-autumn-tall
into the pallid arms of winter: a
form, a figure, emerges radiant:
half-covered in the ruddy hues,
blessing hands, flowing robes, lips
in half-smile, oh, the eyes of love!
An attempt at a scene-descriptive genre I choose to call 'picture-poetry': the aim is not to provide a fully coherent thought-process or story, as much as to convey a scene or an image.
Greetings for a happy Christmas!