Where I’ve placed my foot
There the roots are restless.
The moon is melting above my head,
The meadow is all a-silver,
And all a-whisper: Wings, wings.
I recall the taste of fruit
And you
And the blooming of buds
And you
Would you come, leaving your abode of cinder
Just at this moment
As the sky-wreath swings on my charred chest?
(Arun Mitra)
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Based on Topics: Sense & Perception PoemsBased on Keywords: a-whisper