Moon was mixing the colors.
The black hole does not exist.
I was hearing about the quantum,
something was amiss.
Purple grapes had turned black.
I am trying to understand
the damages. A discreet thought hole
permits the escape of energy.
Imagination was at risk.
Can you hold on to life,
without a shock?
Somewhere you go back
to a concentration camp to collect the ashes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
enjoyed the great work, Satish Vermaji..You have always fascinated me as a few other favorites of mine here..