Poetry

I was watching a flight of swans
in a neat row over the horizon.

You were counting the pebbles on the beach.
Sun will shortly crease the clouds,
but first let us decide for our starving existence
how far is our home?

I cannot assemble the broken mirror,
the splinters have twisted images.
Somebody knocks out a tomb in sand,
and I wait for a giant wave to wash
out the traces.

The death offers the final peace.

Satish Verma