(5-6-1935 / )

Minutes Into Hours

You do not mean, what
you say in dim voice, I
would, what I didn't say.

Light moves abruptly
to kill darkness. I was wounded.
Seeds would germinate?

Half a sun, King moves.
Queen sleeps on the golden bed.
Moon will weep at door.

by Satish Verma

Other poems of VERMA (4547)

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