Sits Like Fog Poem by Satish Verma
Sits Like Fog
Endogamy.
Don't hear much
of human voices.
Moon will rise again?
Deep angst,
pitch dark.
There was no truce
between the trees.
Undermining―
the sanctity of god's words.
You want to take the chair
of judge and hear to yourself.
I spot the blood
on sleeves. Who had used
the cleaver?
Can you bring
a period of silence, to
meditate for peace?
Somebody was laughing hilariously.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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7/30/2025 5:10:25 AM # 1.0.0
