Poetry

That yellow moon haunts me again
and overleaps my sleep.
I do not dare to walk in the graves
of your eyes. The palace
has broken.

Mere suffering was not sufficient.
You have to wince with pain
for a crucified secret,
dying for a graced truth.

Snatch me a tear from
the blind eyes.My precious rags
will make a sacred thread to wrap
you on your arm.

The bruised innocence does not matter
now.You walk like a prince in every dark
page of history. Light follows the
sounds of body.


Satish Verma