Poetry

The other sex was stapled,
I started unfolding the secret:
what was static and who was silent.

I searched, therefore I was lost
before the end of journey.
The stench of grafting was taking over.

The incendiary recce was carried out
to shut out the voice of the street
in the melting snow.


Lake will find the woods for disquieting
sleep of muse under the blue-lipped moon,
and I will face my night.


Satish Verma