Wandering Jew Poem by Satish Verma
Wandering Jew
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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 6:40:31 AM # 1.0.0.1119
