I am, because
you are not there.
In cold blood
you slice the moon
and drink the tears.
The forest path
opens for the shot
tigress. She will
survive.
A mysterious hand
picks up my name to
write a wounded
poem.
There was no war
between the gatherers
of blood-soaked shirts.
Will you come back
bone, flesh, heart?
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 30th, 2023 21:23
- Category: Nature
- Views: 4
Offline)
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