Talking Spirit
Water has its own mind.
Becomes a rival
in the crack of a rock.
If the moon cries;
it becomes dew
on the slender grass.
The maiden love,
you will find it on
bed at night.
And when the priest
becomes featureless
it goes in the eyes of a god.
When death smiles,
it fills the glass
you drink it like elixir.
poem by Satish Verma
Added by Poetry Lover
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