Poezja

Sky wept
when you hanged the young truth
from a tree.

A shadow falls
on the hill
for a savior.

A winged flaw
becomes a legend
for the sake of a sword.


A nameless letter
betrays the will of a cage
to set the bird free.

My forehead marks
the wrinkles of ancestors
who would not give a name.

Satish Verma