Comments about Asavri Dhillon
Soft Palms Bleed
The soft palms with hundred brown scars
Carried the dried red lotus, ready to fall
After being crushed in her hands.
Every tear that fell from the reservoir of soul
Glided off the skin, craving to adhere to it
But as nothing stays forever, it had to fall.
There was no stain of the tear, but just the touch
The light breeze that caressed her tresses