Poetry

Discarded, on a heap of broken
ceramics, a rotten tooth wants an
award, for biting the snake.
Who was pulling the strings?

The temper of a black moon
beguiles the sun. The green-pathway
was hidden under the rock.
Who was holding the baby?

I am again bewitched by my own
failures. Searching my legs under
the bush, my wodden self cries.
Who was asking the question?


Satish Verma