Poezja

Nothing makes or breaks now.
I will not know you
on the lake. The clouds and shoreline shudder.
There was no speck of endurance. The wind
falls with agonizing thud.

The dusk was hoisting the white waves.
Time to make peace.
Moon will make an appearance
with a veiled threat.

A bleached skeleton on the sand
wriggles to become alive
like the bitterness.

After a midnight death of a battered
probe, it was time to give a final call.
A fire will freeze like a rose
in the wraps of black waters.
The folk singer was coming.


Satish Verma