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Winter does not tell about its coming,
Our natural out layers tell about its coming.
Sometimes it tells the coming of new-year.
Did I achieved something on the previous year?
Yes or no is the answer.

Winter shows wetness,
As dry shows harmatan.
What shall I do?
Winter has no sympathy
Whether you are young, younger, youngest or at old.

In depths of the winter,
By the end of the so-called December,
When the sullen mist comes.
Not like harmatan that hatches dust,
Winter spawns now.

In contrast to harmatan,
Dry leaves falling.
Trees shedding their naked leaves.
Dying in to the world of no come back.
What will they do?

It is also in December
The glowering mist move toward
Following the rage of roaring winter,
It is in Harbo like the city of great formalist,
Leo Tolstoy, the Russian formalist.

I leave home with certain uncertainties,
Seeing the side road.
The space fills with plump women.
But I feel sexless not like what sex maniac feels.
What shall I do?

The hoary grey and snowy wind, comes unplanned,
To touch our drought and uncoloured skins,
And stealthily also surreptitiously hears the sighs of gout.
They are sleeping soothing, seeking the ripping season.

It is winter.
In pale shine and sheen of daylight,
On dewy, wet and dew-covered admirers' banquet.
Fara, honeybees and butterflies hovering above angler.
No they would fire him in that winter.

Don't forget.

©️ Ameer Muhammad Harbo

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  1. I love the flows on lines, and metaphor, used on this poem, this one of the greatest poem, I read on this blog.

  2. Thank you so much. I really appreciate.