‘April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain...’

The chilly wind entered the dark room,
lamp post flickered outside
as he closed the window,
a gush made the feathered pen tumble as the ink splattered on his white crumpled paper

she opened her eyes and said, ‘Go to sleep...’ but he kept writing and she dozed off

the remnants of his past became an ash...

He found a title ‘The Burial of The Dead’

the candle was blown by the wind, he just stared at the dark sky, the waves from the coast was angry and his head needed the fragments to come altogether
his heart, knocking on silence, crying