You cannot carry it
to the end.
I will not put up any claim.
Walk through my heart
in snow.
I will paint a yellow moon.
Come October, I
will weave the wreaths of
smoke, to invite the piper.
Where would you
lead me under the autumn
fall? My name holds nothing.
I will not be last
word in the novelette of a legend.
Stories come and fade.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: April 28th, 2020 20:26
- Category: Nature
- Views: 8
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.