Poetry

Would not place any price-tag
on me. Like a mannequin dug out from a pit
goes for sale.

Abhor the duplicity.
Want to walk straight –
without the golden thong.

The city goes in flames
in a circle.
A new fountain was singing.

They were landing in flocks.
The old birds of same plumage
coming to collect the due of old virgins.

There was no message.
Letterbox was empty.
I will not wait for snowfall in the Antarcita.


Satish Verma