Wind is the writer,

Earth is the page,

Stories written all around

Falling from the blue on the ground

Flowers and fruits

Grasses soft and tender

Blooming, humming round the flute,

Reaping for readers to gauge.


Wind is also a witness

To dreads of many a kind,

Earth, eager to erase

The script so dead, unkind.


Wind gifts the stars

To the earth, day and night

Despite the bruising scars

Lovers’ longhand is right.

© supratik 2023
Views: 931
no comments or critique sought.
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