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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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: December 5th, 2019 18:59
- Category: Nature
- Views: 16
Offline)
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