I fear to walk into those lanes again...they still echo with the laughter of the bygone. On the sides, I can see the dying memories falling as dead leaves from the birch tree, which had once witnessed the blooms of togetherness. Those dried leaves rattle as I walk on them, the same way they did when you were playfully chasing me in the woods.
The breeze does not carry the fragrance of musk roses now. Rather it just blows...blows to dry up my tears on my cheeks. Like us, the musk roses too seem to have withered away.
Those good old lanes are not the same anymore.