The Collected Dreams Poem by Satish Verma
The Collected Dreams
The deep layers of ash
are covering the history of impunity.
My unconscious spirit breeds death.
Where does the heart live?
Cannot stop the waking of iris in eternal
darkness. No light gives any feeling.
Will you open your eyes?
I wake for the script. Nobody dies.
The granite was melting.
Sunday, February 13, 2022
Topic(s) of this poem: history,waking
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8/4/2026 9:58:23 AM # rel_20260803T153344Z_4267e77
