When the winds roar outside, I sit in my wretched room listening to the grief whispers of the past.
It feels just like yesterday when I was a child-like
singing, dancing, and jumping in a grove of rosy flowers my grandparents used to plant.
What happened to that grove or the cheerful singing of birds I used to hear before?
No shining sun, no rosy flowers.
Only ravens croaking together;
all seasons die, but winter rules forever.
©viola
V