The most wanted moon
was writhing
in black sky, after a star
fell for a pebble.
The nymph had become
a golden nugget in east.
Sun was rising.
Guilt of burning the sea
was writ large on the face
of purple clouds.
I am collecting the garments of dew.
Sitting in a night
of waves, watching the theater
going in flames.That day
a cuckoo did not sing.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: April 25th, 2015 00:10
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
Offline)
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