Pain Of History Poem by Satish Verma
Pain Of History
My love had criss-
crossed. Again my old home has
come. The stream of memory gives a wash.
Not of virtue of
age. You don't want to live in this
time. Broke by tragedy, the dream dies.
The vampire of hate
drinks the blood of an innocent, who
forgets to pay homage to the god of fire.
Sunday, April 14, 2024
Topic(s) of this poem: life,memory
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8/30/2026 12:34:01 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
