Scars Poem by Satish Verma
Scars
There was obsession, to wash your
hands again and again.
They swing wildly.
The moods.
Betel leaves, and bad grammar.
Charity untainted.
Divided walls.
A street breaks the steps.
Nails scratching the rosary.
The stranded words,
will not sit on the wide screen.
The damp soil becomes dark.
No gift was needed―
unmaking the wasp's nest.
I bend down to light the lamp.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/3/2024 11:34:12 PM # 1.0.0.1119
