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Somber wind flows through a slow September evening
It comes as the drifted clouds on the poet's old window
Where there is a sigh on a little sky is being
It has grown melancholic ashes in the twilight shadow

Where wind is not too fast
As if it's free from fine dust, but melts with a little gust
Again, it's whispering the dreamy last sweet summer
And at the late evening wind  has blown through the murmur

One day the liquid words were coming from the heart
And its glitter's glee gifted the poet a poetic art
Where it grew the purple plants on the land too dart,
Then it bloomed too many dreams of bud

When the compact words are trying to sing
as the jingling on the poet's dry lips  
Where the poet is writing an ode that has a pair of wing
but metaphors have metamorphosed as the crystal chips

Creating too many bubbles of pain
Those are floating on the flow of the stream
The poetic rhythm is twisting with the September rain
and on the air that has turned to be a rapid steam
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@Musfiq us shaleheen