like a flower with a dry mouth.
Sepia makes you a cradle that only windows know about.
When I'm looking at you in sepia,
the innocence burns me into pieces and shrouds.
A figure that doesn't fit into crowds.
Sepia and brown are not the same.
You were green on top of green when I last saw you.
In sepia, you are ancient history.
When the boats leave the ghats during dim, mellow afternoons,
your face ripples in sepia water.
4 comments:
This is P mode (poetry and photography). delightful really :).
very very pretty, this poem is. its like soft music.
I have an idea.. please put together a series on colours.. as and when they inspire verses in you.
thank you everyone.
@sambuddha: umm..yes, bhalo idea..dekhi..hoy kina.
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