Winters are a ravishing paradox! The calmness of skies and the gleaming of moonlight, quietness in the wind yet it carries scents of love, when the darkness falls early yet it stays longer, when everything is cold yet we need warmth.
I see poetry the same way, it speaks what we cannot say. It's so obscure but its explicit at the same time, words are few but meanings are endless, poetry is beautiful yet it carries pain.
'The withered Rose' is a melancholy of destruction yet it depicts the intricacy of the process. A rose withering in garden is not a self on verge of destruction but a garden losing its beauty, zephyr losing its joy, morning losing its glory and a rose losing a rose!
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