I was blank on the apple bough of adolescence,
epitome of youth,
and my hair a stallion
deeper than the colour of night,
dashing on the white canvas of days.
Now I am a widower,
a window of mourning
on the fraught boughs of milestones
of graveyards,
with the snow tress
whiter than the colour of days,
scattering
on the black texture of night
upon my grieving attires.
