The rough lilt of her voice
leans against a brick wall.
Beneath her feet,
Grass blades lick the shore
for the salt of her voice.
The deep baritone
of stubborn desires
freezes on sheets of ice.
Walk carefully. Falls hurt.
Raindrops on the palm of her hand
become crystal balls,
holding the pattern
of her lines of fate.
They take to wings.
The sky turns a somersault.
New songs rain down.
- Harvinder
No comments:
Post a Comment