Vanities Poem by Satish Verma
Vanities
Was that a robot
claiming friendship
with the relics of past?
Or a quirk of a raw nerve
conversing with history:
and we will wait for centuries
to build a new scream
under the pale moon
in wingless night.
Whispering sex to flowers,
bees scrambled on the skin
of wooly leaves.
Monday, February 14, 2011
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4/26/2024 7:05:49 AM # 1.0.0.1119
