It is a clear, windy night...
My window is ajar...
The candle is barely lit...
The strong wind is threatening its very existence...
But I can't close the window...
For I want to send my sonnets...
They keep bouncing back...
As if the window was the net of an infinite tennis court...
And my sonnets and verses the ball that carries a message...
I am not giving up...
The stronger the wind, the more verses I write...
A strong wind is no match for the heart of a poet...
My pen will keep defying the elements...
If your eyes are about to close...
And you suddenly hear  the words "good night" whispered in your ear...
It means I was able to defeat the wind...
That was the match point...