Where sand becomes
silver, you cower
under a palm.
A birch tree
beacons you to write
the fall of man.
All day you wait
for a miracle.
It never happens.
This autum, I will
worship a naked tree.
A toast for dying moon.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: November 21st, 2018 19:11
- Category: Nature
- Views: 11
Offline)
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