Poetry

Take me, share me if you can
my heart goes to my sun,
my feet will go to my moon.

O, little home
my dream was bigger than you
in the melody of sorrow.

Will I walk again on the
wrinkled sands? what can you
visualize, which I have never seen?

Praying in the scoop
of fingers I feel, gold nuggets
in the throes of doubts –

neatly dug out from the frozen
past, birds, smelling sex, souls
suspended in air.

Was it beginning of hate,
on the yellow mountains
where I am climbing with wooden legs?


Satish Verma