By Prithij Singh
Now perhaps winter is ending
After a long wait, I feel relief
But not exactly of inner mending
But of a shadow I spied in brief
Far away still, yet making pace
Closer it gets by every moment pass
Few in pain have ever seen it race
He comes ‘fore, the heads are turned past
Miles and miles are still between us
Some say the hope is an illusion
No rider there is that rides towards
These men however are in ironic delusion
The rider does come! And so does spring
And I blow the horn loud and long
Beckon the winds carry my voice and him bring
For I can now hear faint whispers of a song
Of good times that are still to come
Last of the cold blows, so smile
And pour yourself some rum
Wait, patiently, he is still many a mile