Unsung Hands Poem by Satish Verma
Unsung Hands
How can you unsee an etched wound?
The name will tell the moon.
An empty sky now calls for
the rains.
What was it-
the ceremonial farewell?
A dependable pain now starts
pulling out the sharpnels from the body.
You may call it
meaningless. My poem now
moves between the stings. Somebody
was going for a merciless kill.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
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4/19/2024 6:27:09 PM # 1.0.0.1119
