At The End Of Game Poem by Satish Verma
At The End Of Game
Very grim. You
promote the copperheads.
Lakes go dry.
I cannot stop
thinking, watching incessant,
the rains.
Waters send― the
crimson clouds to hide the sun.
Now that ice melts.
Become genderless.
You are walking on a
sleeping volcano.
Where the three
rivers meet, I stand on the bank
to watch bipolarity.
We are not yet dead.
Some wherea flutey whistle calls.
Follow the flames.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/10/2024 8:38:03 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Satish, such a profound poem....10++++