Sunday Poetry Special By Ali Shaida

The flying greed

When my wounds cry,
It is like a scary rainfall
Pouring my secrets out,
And the winds mercilessly
Blowing them around
Killing my breaths
And trimming my nerves,
The fall gets wild
Beyond the season’s whisper,
And my eyes reading again
The splashed words
From my book of wails,
By their glamorous ache
My tears shine
Like those of dew drops,
And blossoms,
As if praying in a faded tone,
Let this book be renamed,
Let the book of spring be opened,
Let this snow melt in silent gushes,
Let the sun descend upon this wrath,
Let the moon kiss my gravestone,
Till my sacred scars would drain ,
Those eternal flames of hell…..
ফেসবুক দিয়ে আপনার মন্তব্য করুন
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