Poetry

Sky drank the moon
when night was cool.

A lone tree on roadside
waits for the prowling wolf

to steal the electric skin
like the veins on the breast.

River was flowing
nudging, cleaving the rising frenzy.

Still the thirst does not sink
like the torpedoed sub.

A dropp contains million faces of a moon.
A moon does not have a drop.


Satish Verma