Poetry

The falling poem was
in bruising gamble of winter
of troubled life,
bound to a staircase:
up and down
up and down,
on the rosette of grieving thighs.

From sunset to sunset
a moon rises in all its glory
as the night flows in crevices of thoughts.
Will you lift the veil from the golden face
and sacrifice the lamb?
The infinite was waiting to come out of crotch.



Satish Verma