Satish Verma, 25 kwietnia 2024
Light digs up the hope.
You appear like pure flint.
Sorrow will tell truth.
Weep weep my sun.
Black hole will swallow you.
No need to drink hemlock.
The blank paper has
hidden markings. God wants
to become mortal.
Satish Verma, 24 kwietnia 2024
The answers look
at questions, like sparrows
did not find home.
Where wouldgo, the
butterfly poems, to color
the barren thoughts?
You glide like river
of blood in the eyes of
wounded moon.
Satish Verma, 22 kwietnia 2024
Can you foretell of the
death-like the hound― after
the loss of game?
Past my last poems I
will meet you one day
to settle the debts.
I was incomplete
in my wholeness. I will dissect
the words for bleeds.
Satish Verma, 21 kwietnia 2024
You didn't want to
age, rediscovering,
pain of birth, to live.
To remain atheist
was better than many gods. You
belong to yourself.
Juxtaposed with
blank walls, a bohemian
draws image of sin.
Satish Verma, 20 kwietnia 2024
I tried to sleep
under the sun at night. From moon
to moon summoning the pains.
Someone wants to cut
the clouds. I was indebted to darkness.
Blue light comes to kiss me.
The witch-hazel wails.
Let the blood flow from the eyes
of crying earth. Do you listen?
Satish Verma, 19 kwietnia 2024
A forgotten truth
lands softly on the wet grass.
I had lost the words.
The moon was cut on
table to taste the honey of
towering love.
The hidden face
in womb of the earth smiles
in darkness of pain.
Satish Verma, 18 kwietnia 2024
I would be thinking
of you in dangerous journey.
Who was redeemer?
When tree eats
its own roots, I become
sad. What role I play?
Thoughts tremble.
I cannot stop you burning.
I weep with my God.
Satish Verma, 17 kwietnia 2024
Did you open it,
the red rose? Was it a sacrilege
to give an erotic response?
Golden door seldom
opens. We want eye contact
with the sun, envious of the moon.
A cut in pitch black
does not bring the light. The moon
always waits for the lover.
Satish Verma, 15 kwietnia 2024
I had my scars.
This war will not end any day,
fighting with my brute.
Your presence I
feel in my wounds. Will not
convert meinto martyr.
Soon I will pick
up bloody path of learning,
what I am, I was.
Satish Verma, 14 kwietnia 2024
Migration continues,
me to you. Conception guides
you to deep sea.
At middle― of pain
there can be mass extinction
of thoughts. You stay.
Like printing on
tablet of psyche, my genre of
immortal yearning.
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