The Rarest Thing - Poem by Satish Verma
The night watchman
has become an etcher.
The stoning of the shirt
must stop. These moments were the
real sinners/beating the moon.
A simple story becomes an epic.
The belly buttons start
stammering. Meaning did not take a bath.
Canaries have gone on a strike.
They will not sing on the edge of night.
An oil painting walks out of the canvas―
to become a parable.
The creator of this art
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The Road Not Taken
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Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye