Noiseless Voices Poem by Satish Verma
Noiseless Voices
Give me your figure.
I want to cry. I know your
physique O god, I cannot keep your debt.
This was a point return.
And I was not ready to go. My love
is dead. Where the moon goes?
Kill the pale museums.
I want new life. My feet smell of
lone paths and sharp nails.
Friday, October 18, 2024
Topic(s) of this poem: life
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8/29/2026 1:22:46 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
