You should stop
telling me, that you don't
deserve me.
Come hither
to pay back my anguished
calls. Sky was becoming red.
No Mayday would
be needed. I will not undulate,
will not play with needles.
Between the palm
leaves a death blows
chopping off the hands of artisans.
It was futile to collect
the forget-me-nots. No
angel was ready to come out of bed.
It was a religion
to squeeze the tears,
before you stoop to conquer.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: July 20th, 2020 19:51
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
Offline)
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