Poetry

Before sinking to knees.
I will talk to flowers.
Day of arrival has come.

In death, wisdom of trees
will eject the seeds
of fire on hip-locked roots.

A miracle will raise the bones
from the rage of crowd.
The king has agreed to depart.

Darkness sings in the
valley of sun.
Tongues are free to weave the moon.

Till the words are ready
to walk on street of sorrow
to remove the blood soaked prints.


Satish Verma