A Spiritual Rage Poem by Satish Verma
A Spiritual Rage
The neck pain was singled
out. Roll yourself down―
from the hills. The
figures were crying.
You cannot dismiss
the infamous past tense.
The butchered birthday―
of freedom of speech.
The underpaid stone cutters
of the quarry, and the
golddiggers crowding the street.
Whom will you give your hand?
In glass, the progeny-
grows, away from home,
from inheritance.
I stare in disbelief, unblinking.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
5/3/2024 9:41:54 PM # 1.0.0.1119
