Carrying Scars Poem by Satish Verma
Carrying Scars
The prediction goes awry.
I wipe away an exotic
smudge on the paper.
I was trying to fight
venom of adverbs and
adjectives.
I want to retrieve my
poem, as it was― before
the digital onslaught of beheadings.
Give me my garden room,
baby moon and spotless
needles. My blood was blind.
I would come again in
my burial mode, when
your trenches are ready.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 2:44:00 PM # 1.0.0.1119
