In My Small Fists Poem by Satish Verma
In My Small Fists
You seldom touch
the flames of eyes, when
I believed it was true.
Your hand burns.
Ceremonial. I
pluck the roses in
delirium. O pain-giver
there was beautiful blood.
Cloud, cloud tears
slip for thousand of years
to reach the dry lips of iris.
Why did I go blind?
After the snake bite
you turn blue, a goddess
of forgotten sins, I
will never blame you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/20/2024 11:43:07 AM # 1.0.0.1119
