Braiding The Destiny Poem by Satish Verma

The time will not heal. The
aging looks. Erotica. Each
scream ends in a dry river.
Who had the right to deliver
the needle and a silk thread?

Sometimes I will read you for
the signs of remorse. There
was this rigid wrinkle which
will not move on the face.

It will not matter if the grief
overwhelms. The scare was
real. Regurgitation. The bell
will not ring today. The pod
splits to release the seeds.

Come my mentor. I have tested
the floor, smelled the rope. The
translation should end tonight.