The Tales of Love from Winter Snow to Spring Birds!

Life smells of rotten flesh discarded for days;
like jasmine flowers left untouched to decay
when sounds of Mozart turns heart to maize,
cool breezes taking my life in pinch of foreplay.

The resurrection of days old bodies of truth
her eyes reminds me of life before this disguise:
I could write books for her lips that sooth's
as if as, the smell of her breast which I strive. 

My eyes moves ahead to touch those feet's,
afraid of the passe of mind who kills the shine;
in Love, fear grounds of ego who lets her fleet,
of her murmurers written in winds that shrines.

How can the letters explain of these smells
the heaviness brought in by her own rage,
my words are just a captive of her spells
which lets the sky capture mountains in cage. 

The act dies the death of beggar who awaits,
of candles that would light him up in flames;
where the big box is set for his life to elevate

her mind, body and spirit snows in his flakes. 

Where else would the lover die if not in love,
of space which breaths of gates to unite:

to spring means to die in winter of her curve,
where birds crawl in with love to revive time !