Stay till end of
my poem, for
dying sun.
Howling winds searched
my body, my soul
when I stood alone.
The blue scorpion knows
its religion. That was predation.
Landfall for hungry.
If the blood leaks,
the victim sings for moksha.
Milking starts.
The golden leaves
are peeled off from the moon.
No night was safe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well conceived and elegantly brought forth with insight. A beautiful creation. Thanks for sharing Satish.