Seed Money Poem by Satish Verma
Seed Money
Standing on the roof
of world and
searching god in sky.
The ground reality
appears, if you don't read
the scripts.
Only visible are faces
and hands, which twitch
and tremble, if you―
forget to celebrate the
death. Shrapnel's will remind
you, what was certain.
The obituaries are
farce. This is self-adoration
because you are alive.
Buying curtains
was cheaper than building
a house.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/23/2024 11:53:39 AM # 1.0.0.1119
