poetry, — how does it feel...
About seven seasons are in you and each of them is filled with feelings and their thrills. Thereby, — in spring, you're a zephyr… first glance, first kiss, first ecstasy. The summer is the burning love of yours. When autumn comes the bedding gets a fix. It's winter when you're freezing me with your gaze. Forgetfulness appears to be the coldest season felt from you... and yet, more intimate and more involved, it is the season when we meet in dainty fancy of the poetry, — how does it feel... as you can see, — you're unpredictability
