The first stitch
of the poem. Painless words.
There was no song.
The lull before the
blast. Buddha bends to pick up
the tangerines.
Deep orange-red
sun rises to name the sin.
There was no saint.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: March 4th, 2023 20:53
- Category: Nature
- Views: 8
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.