The brown dust―
floats, while reading
poetry.
It was my first―
love with the dancing words
in the jungle of departures.
The genocide of―
reliefs. I erect a shrine
for the slaughter of unknown.
Innocently, I utter―
your name in dark, that
lights up the aubade.
Strange things happen.
I stand where the roads don't cross
parting the emptiness.
The deadpan. Another city falls.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 16th, 2022 22:16
- Category: Nature
- Views: 18
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments1
and from the fall, a new flower: Buds
and they shall name her, Addis Ababa
till, that next weed of destruction
finds her
that unamusing
cyclical duality, in Universe's callous Nature...
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