They lay together
through this frosty night,
hand in hand,
till the morning dew
provided them a cover.

Soon some alien winds will drift them,
tear them apart
to unknown destinations.
“Till next spring,
in this garden”
an unspoken farewell
shall be muttered.

As hands are parted,
destinations will ride,
on wintry cold wind,
to nameless burials,
in scattered address.

“Till next spring”,
The last wish will sigh.

~S~

dew

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