Smitten by your holy
tongue, the muse melts
in the raging sun.
There was a deep
gorge between the hills.
My face turns blue.
Trembling hands will knit
splendent wreath for a
departing moon.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: January 19th, 2024 20:01
- Category: Nature
- Views: 4
Offline)
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