The shovel
moves the wet earth
noiselessly.
Your path goes to dark,
in the jungle fire
through Sunset Boulevard.
Father of my father
used to drink a pitcher, of black tea, daily,
to stay alert.
He would tell me,
“Do what you wanted to do.”
The rain will not stop
for sometime. Why don’t
you go to sleep?
The fury of the
flood, will not break
the pride of an oracle.
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: August 4th, 2018 16:44
- Category: Nature
- Views: 29
- Users favorite of this poem: Laura🌻
Offline)
Comments1
Excellently executed!
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