Mona Lisa Poem by PRATHAP KAMATH
Mona Lisa
She is another urn.
If not Grecian, Italian;
one of the world’s many,
yet the one for me.
Carved of smile, forehead,
bosom, eyes, relaxed fingers,
mountains, vales and the sky
with vast spaces within
to store my storms and rains.
In this room
we devour each other;
she my dying cells
I her mummified self.
Nothing we can do
to lessen
the strife outside.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/29/2024 12:20:31 AM # 1.0.0.1119
