Some Fantasia

You cannot carry it
to the end.
I will not put up any claim.

Walk through my heart
in snow.
I will paint a yellow moon.

Come October, I
will weave the wreaths of
smoke, to invite the piper.

Where would you
lead me under the autumn
fall? My name holds nothing.

I will not be last
word in the novelette of a legend.
Stories come and fade.

Satish Verma