Poezja

Tilted lips on the wet eyes.
Below the lids
was floating an island in a lake.

Latched to a full moon
I was trotting with snowshoes,
trekking with stars.

A volatile virginity
rebounds
ticking in your heart, spiteful.

And I, lonely as a black hill
seek the silver dew
that moons the green windows.


O malignant night
I was not worthy of death
you bestowed on me.


Satish Verma