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Pages

When you have put your diary open
And wonder all the night what to write
As the window outside freeze with snow
Barely talking to the wind
Listening to the calm night
You expect the lights to go off
And lie in the warmth of the table lamp
Head on the soft pages
That had been crumbled with your dreams
When it was summer, all before.
You forgot the lines, written long before
In the blue beaded book
Which you tied with the red stained thread
That once belonged to your friend
For whom you were writing so long,
Waiting in the midst of the spring,
While winter torn all the pages away.

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