One fine day in July:
The sound of birds chirping, dancing amid the softly swishing branches of summer willows.
The caressing rays on sunlight sprayed the different hues of green leaves and the hills beyond alight with a warm glow.
The idle breeze whispered of sea winds and faraway places and stories, and flirted with the shy pink flowers.
Inside, what I hear are the faint chirp, what I see is mere shadows of the light,
and the trail of dead leaves the wind left behind.
And I am locked inside, banished and alone, alone with my lonely heart and the faded yellow pillow I’m holding tight.