Poetry

Like tussoh, I collect snow
after the blizzard, churning
the quartz, O December.

Time to hang my boots
and listen the call to quarters.
Windows would kill me.

I had my horrors
I had my wine.
The moon was still calling.

My thumb bleeds
for white skin of sun.
Who was depressed in night?

The collateral damage
is bound to happen; if drones
don’t listen to me.


Satish Verma