Nostalgia
The hidden message.
You will not be able to stop
picking the summer’s eyes.
Staring straight onto your
slope. Why do I need
to love the dreams ?
I would know the road
to my lake in mossy groves.
The crow’s-feet will tell the pedigree.
Upset by a slight, you
need a shirt to cover your wounds.
The curtain falls on the stitches.
Silence was a golden
bird flying in the sidewalk
of a moon dying in blue sky.
Satish Verma
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