Polka DotsA Poem by Satish VermaPolka Dots
We are afraid of each
other. You start packing your majolica wares to move out swiftly, not to return back. The floor was dirty. I walk barefoot on the sharp edges. To ask the matriarch of pains― mother earth, how long the man should suffer? A woodcutter does not want to pursue his art. He throws his axe far away and starts meditating. So much violence in our lives. You slay a traveler for telling his mind. You were becoming jealous of yourself. Start throwing pepper in the eyes of moon. © 2021 Satish Verma |
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