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Poems :  DYING ART
Tags: Life  
 
The wind was in your hair,
I will bring the
valley, for you.

A major shake up. People
bend the moon
on the lake, against hanging.

The snow-capped peaks
would collect all the green fires
for the running tribe.

The centuries weep
for the unknown warriors;
who were born to look like chaff―

becoming fodder. I will
ask the god to write a requiem
for a person, who dies
thinking too much.



Satish Verma

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satishverma
Author satishverma
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Date 2015/3/3 2:53:19
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Recents
Little Gods
Coding An Ocean
The Cameo
Speaking Of Angst
In Nostalgia
Random
On Collision Course
The Signs
Wounded Path
BEYOND CHANGE
APPROXIMATELY
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