Poetry

When moon was found on water
sky came down with unclenched fist,
too proud to accept the defeat.

Footprints of a giant will not leave
the broken landscape, of the virgin garden
where roses died in a row in storm.

There were no absolutes in good and bad
I have started talking to trees to shed
their blooms, winter was coming in blue eyes.

My ship was able to dodge the icebergs
wringing the waves from your face;
lake heaved a sigh of relief in glided death.



Satish Verma