By: Reema
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Mom, where are you…
The winter is cold, same as the milk!
The cats have eaten my loaf of bread…
I shall not cry!
Dad…
Can you hear the hunter’s gun
As he shoots my swans?!
The river has turned into red
I shall not cry!
Grandma…
The cakes looked heavenly delicious
The ones you left on the fireplace…
But the fire reached them and they were burned!
I shall not cry!
Reema; one of the old good days’ writers…
A connoisseur of white color and horses; for whom writing is a hobby and for which, she leaves the world behind!
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