The Honey-Sellers Poem by Satish Verma
The Honey-Sellers
In searing heat, on
the fern path―
a thoughtless journey begins.
You cancel the prayer
for midnight blues.
Ice was going to unload.
The skin deep spread
of levator floor acts.
You jump from a springboard
to catch a lucid dream.
Would you now walk like
an eight legged spider?
I will remain sociable.
The hands are not for sale.
I am arranging the combs
on the white sheet―
for the queens.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/4/2024 2:34:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
