Moving Off Poem by Satish Verma
Moving Off
After a long time, I heard them again:
peacocks.
Bequeathing the pilgrim sun to palm trees;
poised to open sexuality.
Ah, the purple lips of a downing
cloud sets the sky on a chase
for a lost love of the blazing
moon in the starless night.
A recent pluck of a sharp grace folds
the lingerie, you open the fist to let
the explosion fly away.
This was the start of a crimson romance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 3:03:50 PM # 1.0.0.1119
