Between the soft glow of
twilight and moon, it was
cold. For a faithful swan.
*
The black smoke billows
from the rooftops of mud houses.
Time to celebrate a dinner.
*
I will not give up,
though nothing was left to do.
Atleast I can write a poem.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: January 29th, 2018 20:37
- Category: Nature
- Views: 6
Offline)
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