The Blame Game Begins Poem by Satish Verma
The Blame Game Begins
The trauma gives me a
severe jolt.
The paper nest of
wasps remains unbroken.
There was an ethereal
feel. One outwardly thought.
We should be ready for
a final war.
Between words and deeds
the religion was expanding.
River of blood was becoming
thick. Can you walk on the
frozen bodies?
The title of the substory
changes. Every executioner
had a deep hurt inside.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 1:03:59 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Dressed in red from head to toe, he kept his hands visible, gripped in a fist around the hardwood handle of the ax. Where they would do the most good. The orbs always flickered for eternities, it seemed. He undid the seam stitch by stitch. That was the pattern he sewed.