How long has it been,

No sight of the butterfly spring.

An amber-dotted winged angel.

The eyes have searched for 

the orange streaks of Palash

For days in nature's blush,

and in your eyes.

You knew that spring

wouldn't come again—yet

You looked at the horizon

now and then; and suddenly,

it felt to be alive again.

A sky of hues, a myriad of unshed paints—

Like another parched painting of Picasso,

In the spilled colors stained on your shirt,

Time swung low, high in the sky, and

After brushing your skin, ran away.

And before you could understand, 

It bloomed the flowers in our graves,

as a thousand dreams sprouted.

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A/N: Any thoughts on how it could look like if this really happened? Kindly vote anyway! :)