Not begging,
for a native dream;
hiding an ocean in the eyes.
The hills were trembling.
I am going to cross the river,
of flames.
I am sitting on the dirt floor,
counting the cowries.
This was my home,
that was my book.
Playing the game of death.
What had you written, O god
with your quivering hand.
I am still following a riderless horse.
Not the least. Any want...
Give back my blank page.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: February 8th, 2018 20:00
- Category: Nature
- Views: 8
Offline)
Comments1
"I am going to cross the river,
of flames" just feed back, I think it'd be better if it said "I am going to cross the river of flames" instead of the comma between river and of. again just my feedback but great poem
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