Every evening, an incomplete song remains in my book.
The going people on street,
Brids in the sky,
The flowers which bloomed in pairs
Saying they don't need anyone either
The song looked at me,
For the ending of story dewling between truth and imagination,
The night covered us with blankets to sleep.
In the morning, I woke up to see still the song is there
It's in its deep sleep,
I went to streets to find another new one for today.
