The wind is quiet, wearily quiet this evening,(and they say that winds do not age)and I,I am fondling the wild rosewith the inexplicable hopethat I shall find your tear on its petal.Since you have gone, many a night has lost its brilliance,and they tiredly walk mydark paths,as if they grew old too,just like our memories.Those wonderful young nights- in which we used to look at turquoise netswoven by singing crickets during silky nights –now they became completely tired and dark,and they aimlessly wander my dark paths.The wild rose's petals have long since stopped dancing,because the wind no longer touches them.They say that winds do not age,perhaps not the desert winds,but the cemetery winds certainly age and diealong with people and flowers.