That spell of the year again,
When each instant keeps lingering,
The wait for the heart to clear its bearing,
Hopeless when such days are tainted by memories.
When you sense your heart thudding,
Matching with the consonance and struggling,
To know that the tenderness you yearned so dearly,
Was nothing more than a mirage in the nearing.
They tell you to make an attempt onwards,
But the heart keeps dragging you lower,
The only thing to be done without reason,
Is not to let your mind think far this season.
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