Satish Verma, 4 lipca 2022
Your roses drink the
sun in dewy dawn. I catch the
speed of dying moon.
The rains bring in new
asterisks to anoint the verses
before their burial.
One more mercy to let
the shadows of swallows fall
on my blank pages.
Your lips are like hinged
leaves of Venus flytrap. Become shut
when you trap the words.
Satish Verma, 3 lipca 2022
The horses run like―
tiny dots, on horizon, to
meet inevitable.
A celestial dance
ensues for skulls uncapped
to hear the echoes.
How far was the house
of god, where you will receive
the revelation?
My tribe was hurt. I
cannot stand indeterminate
end of the slaughter.
Satish Verma, 28 czerwca 2022
A fallout from your
waning smile, parades
a naked wound.
A slice from a wake―
remembers me.
I was sitting in lotus position
ready to go for abdication.
Your message was elegantly
subtle. Not to lose conscience,
remaining the first lover of death.
Exiled from guillotine,
you don't see holiness in
the talons of eagle coming down.
The tree and a river
were old friends. The scarves
tied to the old branches, will
tell the collaborated suicides.
No sane hands will break
the knees of moon.
Satish Verma, 27 czerwca 2022
Today you are moon,
tomorrow Miranda.
I will call you by different names.
To atone the travesty
of justice, you pull down the flag
from atop of the fort.
Nodoby else was there
when you hit the planet.
We join our hands to drown
without a lake.
The king of sky, now
waits for the tempest. When the
daughter will come to wipe out
the tears of snowy peaks?
Satish Verma, 26 czerwca 2022
For the memory of palms,
the pretence lives on―
the blade of a saber.
You run on the sands
barefoot― to catch the waves
returning back to sea.
You had stopped
talking to me― wearing the
mystery― I loved.
On skin you print the
anthem. Somebody kills the lamb.
The pathos went quiet.
Becoming cold turkey,
absolutely white. The pilgrimage
over, you break the coconut.
Satish Verma, 24 czerwca 2022
Touching your
glacier lips with my poems.
A splinter thought
has hogged the center stage.
There was a double
meaning in relaxed posture
of rebellion. Doves of peace
were not visible as yet.
The poverty of freedom
to defend the talent of embracing
death without bullets of shame.
Stones in limelight, left
and right, hitting the walls
of silence. The fat people with
golden hair will decide the hard core burns.
All night, I was
changing sides. Moon was
sending the messages in gaping holes.
Let the skin of hands,
hang like salt-and-pepper!
Satish Verma, 23 czerwca 2022
Not thinking of you
in vacant mood.
Sometimes you want to put
questions to yourself.
Touching the bruises, like
a lover, not to feel the pain. You
want to wipe out the hurts,
trespassing the area of darkness.
Changing the script, you want
to etch out your name―
on the trunk of a fig tree. Under which
a Buddha wanted to meditate, but did not.
The hands print will tell the tale
of a masterpiece built by them after which
they were chopped off.
Satish Verma, 21 czerwca 2022
Opening night's silk,
remembering you, under moon―
walking on wet grass.
You were not fake in
a crowd of naked fakirs,
taking bath in sun.
The truth must come out
to face the mother tongue,
when god was killed.
Where it hurts, the shoe's
nail. Prodigal son was blind.
Did not read the road.
Satish Verma, 20 czerwca 2022
Poetry stares, unblinkingly,
in dilemma―
at mindless extremism.
Evolution of words,
was going retrograde.
Your pretty face―
needs dusting. I was
curious to know about the story
of night shifts.
Sometimes I am hit―
by your feline grace to go for
immolation of male chauvinism.
You erect the barriers,
so that I won't
reach your lips. The moon
went laughing whole night.
A slow poison, like
hemlock, you drink the hurts
to stay alive in a wax house.
Satish Verma, 19 czerwca 2022
I will return you
to yourself in the twilight
of waning moon.
No more we will speak
in dark, to read the message
of holy night in pain.
A long way to reach
you in misty thoughts after the
priest breaks the vowels.
Something was certainly
wrong. Coffin was on way to
pick up the vessel.
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