In My Painting Poem by Satish Verma
In My Painting
You pry out my eyes,
when I look at your hands,
which were rough and cracked.
Were you digging
your future? Pomegranates
always left red scars.
Don't ask the god
who was helpless, sitting
on sun to cool you.
Thursday, April 30, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/30/2024 12:32:36 AM # 1.0.0.1119
