Holding the ladder
I was hungry
looking at the waiting dawn.
Raw landscape:
narcissism
forages the belly.
Picking up the figs
from passion flowers.
Is that right?
Can you sow the seeds
on a cloud?
Unclothed words?
Stealthily
a guerilla smashes
a summary of centre.
A falconer
releases a prey
to feed an anarchy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Clothed words and unappreciative minds are the same..always feel the suffocation of identity. Well written...Satish verma, ,