The memory of my old days Sweet and sour in tastes Was weeping in snowy evening. The evening among bare and tired trees. The trees those were looking gloomy As Gloomy as the old men in grief. The old men having mysterious stories. The wind was blowing as The ghosts were flying in moan. The moan on beloved’s silent death. The snow was falling Over dark lonely path. The path which was familiar with Your silent foot steps. The sadness of snow was Mingling with my heart’s voice. The voice which has your lost shadows.