and at last
the sun when getting down
the cool breeze overwhelmed our mutiny
a little sound
she uttered
to make me confused
nothing but a sweet whistle
as if calling again
all the devilish sensations
tried to put a mark deep in the soil
where a cockpit would be imagined
to take off our last flight
and at last
the pinning beauty a tree considered
as a child when keep his mark on its skin
throwing all his arrow just to mark his strict heroism
and here the story ended with a blunt smiling
and the teller simply looked vacant!
Pranab k c
01/05/2016
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem