Postscript Poem by Satish Verma
Postscript
The space shrinks
when moon breaks the black night.
An aching flotilla does not
reach home. The wait ends
in your poems.
Clutching at floating truths
you help to save the words
of predicament. Ultimately
a temple walks free
without a god.
The whiteness of false teeth
has a regular visitor
of a bright smile.
But the tender eyes were telling
a different story.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/1/2024 4:38:41 PM # 1.0.0.1119
