The king
made a fun of our poverty.
Marble faced girls always thought,
wearing black scarves -
sweeping the floor of white mausoleum.
You made a death
a loving eternity.
We die daily
in the face of old shine.
Who shoots a peacock
on the tree?
I mourn for the blue peace,
let the clouds come.
Who remains unhurt
unpained, when the night calls?
I seize a moon
to enter the crack of dawn.
Satish Verma
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Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: October 22nd, 2013 19:07
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
Offline)
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