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Dying Art

By Satish Verma | Category :: Poem

The wind was in your hair,
I will bring the
valley, for you.

A major shake up. People
bend the moon
on the lake, against hanging.

The snow-capped peaks
would collect all the green fires
for the running tribe.

The centuries weep
for the unknown warriors;
who were born to look like chaff―

becoming fodder. I will
ask the god to write a requiem
for a person, who dies
thinking too much.

By Satish Verma | Nov 14, 2017 | Category > Poem >Life | Comments | Views 164


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