Poetry

Do not stare at full moon.
The distance between love and hate
has narrowed.

Not for the shrunk radiation,
sun wants to hide behind the gift
of sunflowers.

The golden ring on the black finger,
I love the death’s cry,
fire will wear the jewel.

Collapsed roofs of the palace,
it is the cushioned agony
of the emptied king.

Everything was melting,
the child, the mother and the grain.
From where the water will come?


Satish Verma