Beseechingly Poem by Satish Verma
Beseechingly
Do not live like dead.
The minarets were trembling
without a dust storm.
*
Will the man change one day?
Your fair skin turns brown in sun
after burning the book.
*
Stars move sometimes
to understand the weird landscape
of the squirming earth.
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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5/20/2024 2:00:09 AM # 1.0.0.1119
