Poezja

Distance was increasing
in spewing rage.
I yearned for a solitude of desert
sand and rocks
away from musty tongues
and eros.

Counting my failed attempts
to reconcile with exits
and slant hopes.

Like an eclipsed moon
plying over the hill
to investigate a shorn lamb.
Plucking the hair from a beautiful scalp
to become a nun.

Arthritic river brings back the waves.
Unreachable was the crest.
Today standing alone on the summit
I watch the dropp with grief.


Satish Verma