In the dust storm
a discarded moon
sat in my lap.
Then internal rhythm
crashed.
Amorphic I would not find the music
of words translated into a kiss.
Gold started weeping
in my hands.
The clouds will rest
after committing a sin,
of letting out the sun.
Satish Verma
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: May 24th, 2011 00:21
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
Offline)
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