It was a similar winter eve,
When she, henna, rich on her palms,
Blushed face partly in red,
Came to ask for her letters back.
Silent pleas in her bewildered eyes,
Face, pale with the shadows of unknown fear,
Then, with the letters clenched in her fist,
Drowned in reflections of past,
She leaned on my shoulder and cried.
Untold stories of the times gone-by,
On the trembling edges of crimson lips,
Even today, often on the winter eves,
The silent scene of her parting
Flashes in my tearful eyes,
And a moment of henna rich hand beckons.
It was a similar winter ev