Wandering Jew - Poem by Satish Verma
Counting the digits,
of your hand, you forget,
how many fathers you have.
Was it not very odd that
truth exists in the crying eyes
of a child whose mother
had abruptly disappeared?
It always hurts, when
realization comes. A little
sprig of cowlick, reminds you of
timelessness. You can move-
in any direction. You want to
go. That will need a third eye.
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