Poetry

The most wanted moon
was writhing
in black sky, after a star
fell for a pebble.

The nymph had become
a golden nugget in east.
Sun was rising.

Guilt of burning the sea
was writ large on the face
of purple clouds.
I am collecting the garments of dew.

Sitting in a night
of waves, watching the theater
going in flames.That day
a cuckoo did not sing.


Satish Verma