Shall I tell Spring?
That you have clutched a pair of flowers
Withered in your hands
They resemble us...

Shall I tell summer?
That your lips and eyes have parched
By the vehement love
So long ago.

Shall I tell autumn?
That your heart has grown crispier
More tender than Chinar leaves
Trampled by me.

Shall I tell winter?
Your ***** is so frozen
No longer which, yearns for warmth
So fragile to split.
~
Her Orchards of Despair
-Mirza Sharafat Hussain