Mystery Poem by Satish Verma
Mystery
The fumbling picks up.
The sixth sense
was failing.
A mother weeps
for the unborn child.
You were still ogling the peaks.
Were you true to yourself
in the dark, when the
moon was away?
I had lost the burning
coals, after the
rains came.
The dark mine, where
they were shot, for
picking up the lightning.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Topic(s) of this poem: dark,rains
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8/4/2026 5:44:15 PM # rel_20260803T153344Z_4267e77
