Your words —as sil­ver Knives

They always cut with­out res­ur­rec­tion
The ten­der golden String that laces our Souls
With pre­cious beads of days and nights
and price­less moments of Affection

And every time you slash that strand
I look for tiny beads to fix it
and with each time I find them less..

I take what’s left and try to mix it
With empty looks, and closed doors
With lonely nights, and last­ing griev­ing
For some­thing that belonged to us

The Spring of our trea­sured feelings…

This time, I may add sparkling tears
And mix them with the droplets scat­tered on the ground
But seems this time the strand will not be fixed
The tiny clasp of purest gold– was lost… and never found.…

…