Poetry

After a long time, I heard them again:
peacocks.
Bequeathing the pilgrim sun to palm trees;
poised to open sexuality.

Ah, the purple lips of a downing
cloud sets the sky on a chase
for a lost love of the blazing
moon in the starless night.

A recent pluck of a sharp grace folds
the lingerie, you open the fist to let
the explosion fly away.
This was the start of a crimson romance.


Satish Verma