when the morning of March, does a remake...

Why this mist? why this fog?
Haven't found them in any earlier memory log...
The month of March is at its end
But still the streets of me why thus send
So much of mist and chill?
Why in the air the wintry nip I feel?

O my winter is still there
Painting me with frosty-color...
Still there is a curtain cover
Of translucent energy dropping like tear-
From up there the fantastical Heaven
Making oblique...the crossing of seven
Streets without hurly burly
The city is yet to wake up early...
A few thirsty walkers like me crowd
In front of the tea-shop, covered by misty shroud...
A few newspaper boys are cycling fast
They are to send across the news of the century last...
To those houses sleepy and not woken
News of wars not yet broken...

The city street like a lame tired dog
Lies upfront, as I get bogged
Down by the misty foggy dawn
Ether drops spread on my city's greenish lawn...
One by one the flowers would soon wake
When Morning of March does a remake...
Of the last three months of the year gone by
Of the seasonal memories... which never die...