Seconds clapping the hands clasped,
closed doors hearing the shouts of long shut up call of a clock,
moth-eaten curtains smelling like the rotten blessed miniatures alive
and feeding upon the season’s seeds flown and carried.
The frozen walls, cold and stiff from being standstill like a rebel to not unloved a dead one bedridden,
sshh; outside there’s the lining of no liners, inners wearing men and women,
children and mote can’t run with me under heaps of warmth and magic of winter accessories!.
Snow falling every year and cold winds ricocheting my heart that is indeed frozen and hard to crack
until I’m out in the freeze and running out of blood!.
Dim lights, lighting the long queue of poor’s villas,
solid windows that don’t let me see the silhouettes and shivered souls of Winter’s Winners!.
Dangled red-cheeked faces, facing the dull dusted mirrors veiling the warriors wearing no amours, breathless of tons of yarn fashioned designs of best workmen!.
Cold!! Mum.. Shouted the little one, turn on the heater here! Feeling a bit of colds paw on his feet covered!.
Senses, all soaked with great aromas of s-o-u-p served amid the thick clocked snow struggling against the locked doors of immense warmth.
Stranded, silk piece of cloth he chose to cover his dark yet cold-turned-pale windows of eyes, where vibrant gadgets dance to the songs for imagery beauty and stay stuck until the Winter looses it’s cold grip and set the winners free.
By Aiman Qadeer
