(5-6-1935 / )


A pink rose was set to strip
letting the leaves fall.

The roots were jealous of a thorn
for stealing the blood from heart.

It was the last page of a book,
no more commas, no full stop.

The dead tongue now seeks syntax
of the lips that smell like enemies.

Two hard little breasts start a dance
like geraniums on bush.

Between the shadows of thighs
slept the pride.

by Satish Verma

Other poems of VERMA (4549)

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