Mist

In the meanwhile ,we look into eyes
With the redness in the corner uvea.

We love a young poet’s grass in dew
But we hate a dew in the lower uvea.

Eyes may go dead for a  future poem.
Borges had to  imagine whole library.

We go on with our poems in eye-mist
Till we are grass in a  morning’s dew.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s