My mind filled with cacophony-of things that many never reach you,
A forgotten sweater of your past lover that hides in your bedroom.
I  know I won't last eternally, only as long as the  snowflakes,
As the sun melts its corner, so will my sorrows wash me away.

But amid all my troubles only, if you were to bloom like a rose,
It wouldn't be a God who created you, but you would be his form.