The Withering Blossoms Poem by Satish Verma
The Withering Blossoms
The guile demands
some apology,
from raw stings.
Flirting with illegibility:
Mercurially hot,
there was a preempt strike.
The monsoon comes late.
You would wait for the
wet encounter.
Not seedy one;
dragging a green wound.
Ending sine die.
The white salt
on the lips will speak-
the telltale marks, of crude assault.
Who will surrender
in the end, I will
find out, covering my eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/23/2024 7:41:33 AM # 1.0.0.1119
