Theme: Life

Wet Sand

In the dim corridors 
of a dirty game, 
when the crime was rising 
you were pursuing the self-ism 
at the end of the smoke. 

Was it not a wailing song 
of a dahlia, blooming in sun; 
when the life demanded 
only a seed, an old coin 
and an empty frame?

The fake encounters and torn 
shirts of a bleeding tribe 
will ask many unpleasant 
questions from the forest. 
Why the bees had stopped
collecting honey?


More By  :  Satish Verma

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