Coming Face To Face Poem by Satish Verma
Coming Face To Face
When a gravedigger
mourns―
the impasse ends.
A robot turns on the rains.
With horror, you release
the doves to reach for
olive branches for peace.
Paraplegic, the horse
will not run― on hawthorns.
King was decapitated.
You talk to your seers
sleeping six feet down in earth
to explain the genocide―
of unborn fathers, when
they were praying
headdown for downpour.
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 3:12:58 AM # 1.0.0.1119
The broad, rolling meadow had at great cost been tiled. In the stillness of hot summer days the trees painted designs of camouflage upon the faces of the dead. And when it rained royalty took their old decorative swords and laid down inside. Quiet was never heard.