Ah! The congregated clouds
floating recklessly hitherto
have begun to retreat,
they didn’t slam the door—
they simply fade quieter,
leaving echoes on the floor.
Radiant fragrances still
warm the constellation.
The warmth that feels borrowed now
holds on to fading footprints,
learning ephemeral adieu.
Some epistemology of losses
don’t scream; they dim
like winter's wanning warmth.
Tracing the fire in the old hearth
is but like beating a bush to find
the lost coin that sat on the crown
to glorify the grandeur of mankind.
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