Missing The Bus Poem by Satish Verma
Missing The Bus
For the memory of palms,
the pretence lives on―
the blade of a saber.
You run on the sands
barefoot― to catch the waves
returning back to sea.
You had stopped
talking to me― wearing the
mystery― I loved.
On skin you print the
anthem. Somebody kills the lamb.
The pathos went quiet.
Becoming cold turkey,
absolutely white. The pilgrimage
over, you break the coconut.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 5:02:48 PM # 1.0.0.1119
