Dying Art Poem by Satish Verma
Dying Art
The wind was in your hair,
I will bring the
valley, for you.
A major shake up. People
bend the moon
on the lake, against hanging.
The snow-capped peaks
would collect all the green fires
for the running tribe.
The centuries weep
for the unknown warriors;
who were born to look like chaff―
becoming fodder. I will
ask the god to write a requiem
for a person, who dies
thinking too much.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 3:27:23 AM # 1.0.0.1119
