Into Her Deep Eyes

Satish Verma

To read a map― 
listening to your inner voice, for 
changing the green color 
of eyes. 

I was studing you, 
in the caravan of desert, 
leaving the roots 
going nowhere. 

I will wait for the fall 
to pick up my crisp, memories 
breaking off from― 
the sad trees of life. 

Stepping stones were 
beautiful, not the feet. I might 
have erred in draping the 
people who were fake. 

Sometimes you mourn 
the vision of dying moon. 
It will not bleed― 
till you cry.