Is she that fireplace in a wintry night?
Comforting you with warmth.
Or is she the darkness inside?
No, she is the fire that burns within,
Tormented flames naked,
as if dancing in the purgatory.
That evaporates when he shot the wintry jackal amidst the woods?
She might be the cries of cuckoo,
or she is
the sorrow trapped in the eyes of the those fishes,
caged in the illusionary freedom of plastic and glass.
caked with mystery yet keeping quiet the entire course.
Hope she is not that dormant volcano,