Poetry

While tracing a home by charcoal
on a white paper, I hear,
a word comes from the wolf.
A fat was being pumped
into the face of a tryant to inflate
him into a giant.

Butterflies were undulating with
excitement in an inchoate garden.
Fidelity was going down and graves
had no skeletons.

From the eyes of a lamb you pick
up a necklace to weave a snare trap.
Because I would not come back again.
You catch the dust in chimes.

Satish Verma