The snow it fell as the summer dawned,
and the birds flew south in the middle of June.
The leaves that proudly clad the trees,
fell down on the ground many months to soon.
All the rivers with vigour gushing by,
made way for the ice that slowed them down.
And the lonesome flower that hung on to life,
was a bride in white with a snow-clad gown.
And the breeze that used to stroke the skin,
gently with a softness and warmth of the sun,
laid to rest on top of a peak-less mountain,
singing songs of a life that could have begun.
So the story was told that had no beginning,
and the last page was read without an ending.
The snow still fell as the summer dawned,
and the broken hearted continued pretending.