Not Holding Poem by Satish Verma
Not Holding
Not begging,
for a native dream;
hiding an ocean in the eyes.
The hills were trembling.
I am going to cross the river,
of flames.
I am sitting on the dirt floor,
counting the cowries.
This was my home,
that was my book.
Playing the game of death.
What had you written, O god
with your quivering hand.
I am still following a riderless horse.
Not the least. Any want...
Give back my blank page.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/6/2024 10:33:46 AM # 1.0.0.1119
