A Ripe Wound Poem by Anil Kumar Panda
A Ripe Wound
My soul melts with
The rhythmic sound of cosmos..
Traces of its remains
Hangs heavy in minds of a few….
Birth of a refined soul
With a new body is just a trick…..
Sages of yore keep me
Engage with to make meaningless..
What I earn here going
Through much joy and sadness…
Dream remains a dream
For births that may happen or not….
Friday, November 4, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: pain
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4/23/2024 4:28:22 PM # 1.0.0.1119
