Burning Poem by Satish Verma
Burning
After the puppet show,
the nest was calling.
Indeed, the leaves held the slanted light
expanding the shade snared on branches,
of dancing ash, of almond eyes.
Why the hangman was waiting
for the echo? The river was calling.
Was this the inheritance of less
talent of pugmarks, which strayed
into the city of abused words?
The book was calling?
After birth there was no death of my
rhyme. The flesh has gone, only
the burning bones are lying
on bed of roses.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/4/2024 9:54:40 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Emotion has no chance to penetrate such wisdom. After the puppet show / the nest was calling... when a writing put its step to move on the space in such a way, simply a silent cry from deep deep of the human life overwhelmes the reader. Mathematics, calculation....alls are bogus dust dancing with puppetiers nail. But the consolation also runs with the spirit with a sense of immortality: After birth there was no death of my / rhyme. The flesh has gone, only the burning bones are lying / on bed of roses. Regards, pranab 10/10