How I loved you
green, in hot summer
noon, when you
Were not mine.
Sky scented with nostalgia
talks to gypsy moon.
Each star becomes
a wound. The winged thoughts
fly like monarchs.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: December 7th, 2023 20:08
- Category: Nature
- Views: 3
Offline)
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