Falling Rubble Poem by Satish Verma
Falling Rubble
Numerical death
walks quietly in the ruins
of hubris and pride.
The neostrength of
the grass, goes for some aberration.
Wind stops at the gate of unknown.
It was not your fault.
We all were responsible
for the fall of grace.
The calculus of the rubble,
would not tell about―
the last words of fallen hero.
It imperils my belief,
when you wear a brace to―
tell the truth in dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/9/2024 1:24:51 PM # 1.0.0.1119
A gate of iron. The hinges inviting oxygen as an added defense. In the city what is clear is that the traffic lights are controlled by algorythms of indifference. And flowers multiply on days of the heaviest resistance. We all wait for the weather impatiently.