Poezja

The child was trembling inside you:
eliminated,
revived,
walking past an explosion
on the extra edge.
The dash was stabbing.

And without hands
trying to open the crypt
of forefathers.

Things were not happning
as you dreamed of tomorrow.
The moon, too, has become a stranger
Clatter of hoofs
but no rider comes in sight.


Satish Verma