In Trance Poem by Satish Verma
In Trance
Less molecular
affinity exists in the breaths
of time gone by.
I will squeeze
my lips stitching the
borders of pain.
Brown salt was
taking the color of hails.
Knives were red.
You know the truth.
Religion covers the half-
burned candles.
Draped in shroud,
the untouched womb
picks up the priest.
Even the stars
go dim like orphans
of sky, searching god.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/7/2024 7:00:01 PM # 1.0.0.1119
