Your Waking Head Poem by Satish Verma
Your Waking Head
Your impressionist,
rift, comes through
uncontrolled hands of fear. The snake
was shedding the skin.
Not walking,
flying like a rage
discharging the burns
in the river of blood.
I shudder,
in the cleft of a grain.
Hymns were howering over the book.
One by one
the leaves fall, to unravel the secrets of
unvoiced grief of earth.
A thin faith crumbles
unfinding the lost shroud
of a messiah.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/16/2024 1:23:09 AM # 1.0.0.1119
