At Dusk Poem by Satish Verma
At Dusk
Not the salt.
The water hurts.
The frostbite connects
the moment of break.
I will not write
any elegy.
Frivolity takes
away the rose
buds of moon
in dilemma.
Tracing a swastika,
did I ask for your long life?
This was the
oral death of soft
butterfly, who will jump
into bonfire.
You could have given me
a little star.
Sunday, March 17, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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5/1/2024 10:48:38 AM # 1.0.0.1119
