Poetry

One day I will meet you
on a dirt track
and ask about back yard
where moon lives.

Will you give me a kiss of the clock?
I have forgotten the back years.
Autumn now takes care of my assets
and I keep on erasing the names.

O, harvest moon, don’t go away.
I was playing with the black thoughts
eating the yellow grass,
learning the alphabet of white pain.

It was a crystal midmoon, dark animal,
who has taken away all the tears.


Satish Verma