To read a map―
listening to your inner voice, for
changing the green color
of eyes.
I was studing you,
in the caravan of desert,
leaving the roots
going nowhere.
I will wait for the fall
to pick up my crisp, memories
breaking off from―
the sad trees of life.
Stepping stones were
beautiful, not the feet. I might
have erred in draping the
people who were fake.
Sometimes you mourn
the vision of dying moon.
It will not bleed―
till you cry.
Satish Verma
listening to your inner voice, for
changing the green color
of eyes.
I was studing you,
in the caravan of desert,
leaving the roots
going nowhere.
I will wait for the fall
to pick up my crisp, memories
breaking off from―
the sad trees of life.
Stepping stones were
beautiful, not the feet. I might
have erred in draping the
people who were fake.
Sometimes you mourn
the vision of dying moon.
It will not bleed―
till you cry.
Satish Verma
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