The December of my vivid past.
Has just passed me by,
After ages of my self imposed silence
I finally find my voice.
It felt strangely different and comfortably warm.
Like the taste of a coffee you drink,
to find it not identical as the earlier cup.
With great trepidations , I listen my mind.
Too vague and disconnected they seem to me.
As discreet as possible.
I wonder if they will mélange
With the familiar touch of innocence and sense.
If not now, completely, then with time,
Yes, the zeal of January is all set to start
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