Becoming Strangers Poem by Satish Verma
Becoming Strangers
I was rearranging
the things, in order
as if I will come back.
Ah! Life has
lynched my poems. I
feel― I cannot write
something beautiful.
A frenzied mob
calculates your height
and starts stoning at
an erect totem.
The hardened rocks were
melting without fire
to submerge you and your
castle made of clay.
At sunset-point you
reach to stand in twilight
to morph into an alien!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 11:45:34 AM # 1.0.0.1119
