It might happen― that
I become you, in your spring,
you remain winter.
It will never come,
my birthday, till your bright―
red lilies bloom.
The lips won't move
for a kiss of the black rose
under the blue moon.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: November 23rd, 2021 22:41
- Category: Nature
- Views: 17
Offline)
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