Poetry

Be my sleep, I tell a dream.
A lantern was chasing the shadows
on wall. My fever?
I say, past one awakening
I will sleep eternally.

The age licks the grief of fallen
pride. I was still walking on
sharp stones, bleeding inside.
Howling,
here I come from the caves.

A whole truth becomes unholy
when mixed with crackers and has
a loud noise. Let the river of life
flow in breast in night of hunger
without a provider.


Satish Verma