Vaghawan Ojha | Cold Hands

In that stale hospital bed
where my hand, burning with fatigue
hanged frailly from the corner
like a fallen kite
on the branch of a winter tree

All I craved was your
cold hands
after few hours of the announcement of your death,
and the fresh lavender upon your face
with dewdrops
on the verge to fall
somewhere, anywhere,
in the merging of winter and spring;

Submerging in the morass of people walking under the grace of evening, he finds the joy and sorrow that wave in the heart of we, then to dwell on it, is his prayer. He lives beneath the serene wind of mountains. Surely, an admirer of the passing breeze. You can find him on Twitter :

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