Ceremonial Poem by Satish Verma
Ceremonial
Coming of age becomes
temporal, when
I start to speak.
It was my ancient wound―
which had come into being,
to bleed.
No mannerism,
idiosyncrasy or culture
was needed to stay dumb.
Time runs in a
narrow tunnel, to cross the enemy lines.
I will unmourn my death.
Like collecting the bluebells.
After the burial of candor,
there was no other ceremony.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 8:00:24 AM # 1.0.0.1119
