Waist-High Sunk Poem by Satish Verma
Waist-High Sunk
When you release the
words, your curled fingers
burst into flame.
It was an ancient filth,
a bird fighting in the mud-
house of quote-unquote.
Someone navigated
over the bald heads to find
a landing place for a cuckoo.
Between real and fiction,
you cannot write a hymn
in praise of satan, called god.
I am done with the darkness
all around, and rip open
the wall to let in the jupiter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 3:36:32 AM # 1.0.0.1119
