satishverma

Unlike Anybody

In your painting the
silence of death was very loud.
I will call a poem.

Hold it down, your horse
power. Floodgates will open to
let out ugly ducklings.

In moonlight― I may
sit on the sand dune to listen,
the silent, inner voice.

Lines on your forehead
are getting deeper. May I
call the nightingale?



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