She stormed through my days,
Full of parched breath of March
With torrential timbrels of soul.
Roofed by the fresh-ripened dark bosom clouds,
I bask in the brushstrokes of diluted gold
And tune up my flute to her laughter that rings
As blusters of gales through these reeds.
Shorn of my calculated playthings on stage,
I spread myself wide, as an arid brown land,
That longs for her fingers to rain on those beds,
Where green little poems shall embody and sprout
With symphony of forests evergreen.
Shaken and stirred as palms amid storms
I gather my leaves in an evening now stilled
And wait for the lightnings of smile that'll strike,
And sparkle my nights full of flames.