Washed-Out Poem by Satish Verma
Washed-Out
Slashing the surged monarchy
of celibates
stoking the fire of wounds,
the turret locks on to a target
taking off the gloves.
The mountain was rising.
A sheet of the floating ice
disturbs the ecology
of heart. I place my candle in storm.
The missils had failed.
Only the words were flying from
bare lips for entreaties.
Oversexed like a shoe-flower
O, mad enemy
I am pouring out the red sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/25/2024 1:57:59 PM # 1.0.0.1119
