Poetry

Prepare the bed
of the liquid art,
where the ice will kiss the fire.

Can you climb on the flames
to know the truth
of a molten lava?

Who killed the desire
to enter the frozen god
of revenge?

Alas, I will go back
to the wounded pride.
I will not sell my home of curse.

The innocent breast
of the moon,
has kindled the blaze again.


Satish Verma