Clean Hands Poem by Satish Verma
Clean Hands
Deeply troubled inside,
I become silent
like a quiet, serene sea.
Impatience. It
has erupted again in my
hardened mood.
Playing a gamble
without a dice. An unmasked
body trembles.
I will ask my
river goddess one day―
where was my moon?
Exploding in its
face, the enigma had never
any physical.
Making things easier for you.
I stand in the moment of truth
on flames.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/26/2024 4:06:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
