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WET SAND
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Satish Verma In the dim corridors
of a dirty game,
when the crime was rising
you were pursuing the self-ism
at the end of the smoke.
Was it not a wailing song
of a dahlia, blooming in sun;
when the life demanded
only a seed, an old coin
and an empty frame?
The fake encounters and torn
shirts of a bleeding tribe
will ask many unpleasant
questions from the forest.
Why the bees had stopped collecting honey?
Nice inspirational write Respected Mr Satish Verma Sir
Bees are not immortal
Bees must die
New bees must come
To suck nectar
And Live
©bishu