The Golden Gate Poem by Satish Verma
The Golden Gate
Was it too late
to find out, who was
morally wrong?
It was an art of dying
for you.
Shapeless, a big pain
flourishes in my limbs,
but I remain too static
to locate my roots.
The bell will not ring today.
Somebody kills a story.
There was no hero.
Resting, my head on stones
I will bleed rest of life.
No cuts. No bruises appear.
Naked as an arrow,
a sharp gilded attack
opens the cage.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/9/2024 5:59:47 AM # 1.0.0.1119
