Monday, February 13, 2012

A March of Widows ...

All at dismay
That it has begun
Between nights
A rip of flesh
It could have thwarted

And a sucking child
It is nothing like
A pile of errors
And mountain of myths

A headscarf long
Tied and untied
Her eyes twinkled
It could not bake
The naked winds

A wast mirror
In a dried out river
Pitching rain
But no seeds of heart

Washed out weather
Welcomes widows
And marches along
An echo of youth

Stay as long as you can
But leave a leg burning for me!

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