Homing

Like each drop of your humbleness engulfing my urbanite woes; the graffiti emerges in tender grace to resurrect a windmill. My spirit, the abode of small birds carrying the sunset on its back was returning home for the final- sleep in the lap of twilight. When autumn comes and crippled, brown leaves start falling, I will set the birds free in the winds to find their new master. The nest will weep for the broken song. In space between the eyes, lies the negation which will not accept the peace of a grave. I will follow the wilderness- of thoughts again. Satish Verma