It hurts me, my poems
when you don't come in dreams.
Moonlight waits.
How devastated
was your faceless voice in dark!
The nightingale cries.
Like "la grippe"
the noiseless words leave the
night wounds in eyes.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: September 21st, 2023 20:35
- Category: Nature
- Views: 1
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
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