satishverma

Swan Song

The toppled gravestones,
I still count the heads.
I will go with your swan song,
the bond erupts.

You were always sitting under the
bougainvillea, waiting for the swallow.
The next door summer arrives;
Why did you say, it was biting cold?

The door shuts on the moon.
It was obviously very dark,
and I was searching the space
between ’yes’ and ‘no’.



To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.