turn to dust.

color me black,

 like those 

secrets, which sleeps

 as weeds

 on lips  

of that woman.

          

     she  walked for ages,

      with a piece of wood,

       searching for a broken cradle,

    And there she stands

       in-between upside down pots

    and wet grasses ,

  to wrap her son's clay. 

        color me yellow,

        like those  

     sun-rays, which settles

        as fires,

      on dreams

       of that man.

    He walked by shores,

    across sands and stones,

   Like a poetry in a beggar's sleep

     Stealing away two orphaned stars,

    And there he stands

 in-between upside down pots

     and the jealous night,

     to wrap his last sleep.

color me concurrently,

  all those

  shades, which snitches,

    as reflections,

 of a rainbow

  in drops.

   we are nothing but

   those drops that run through leaves,

 we stand in a row on the edge,

     and pretend to fall

   a million times,

      while it slowly breezes ,

   before we truly meet the ground

   and turn to dust. 


  In-between upside down pots
and wet grasses.