The Candle Burns


Not a single word added today
to my tinsel book. The brown eyes
were searching my smile.

You want to close the happening
of first moon and the fig.
My roses start a new dialect,

waiting on the clouds, almost
in rains, spreading the wetting
agent between the eyes.

The distance was the most crucial
thing, that does not end;
endlessly stretching.

Tags: | Category: Life Poems

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