As all stories,
This too, is about love,
How the morning and evening
Wished to meet, now
But every morning would grow weary
With duty of the day's work
Every evening lost it's way,
In the night's despair
So once every summer, by the poles
They took little sojourns
To meet , touch ,play
In an endless day
And as they separated
Went their way
They sent each other,
Painted postcards,everyday.
--shubha
