Empty arms on a cold Sunday,
I am waiting for my love.
Far away she is lonely; preparing,
For the time when push comes to shove.
Thirteen degrees on the meter,
And curtailed rays of the sun.
Only imagining seeing each other,
With every rise of the dawn.
Our love is worth every meet,
Which we can just treasure.
But there is no device or instrument,
For our worth to be measured.
Oh! How I wish you were here,
In the embrace of my charm.
I would keep you tight and close,
And never let you go off my arms.
I know that every day of our lives,
Is not the same – no surprise.
Yet our love is so magical,
Makes every day as beatific as your eyes.
After every winter, comes the spring,
And again it starts to warm.
Till then, I’ll be waiting for the day,
When you’d come into my arms.
- Inscribed By,