Poetry

Waiting for a chaste bread, whole
life under the moon,
to speak off the inconsistency of
happiness,
with a monologue
of a needle in eyes
for a madness of sublime verse.

Canoeing in a frozen lake
for a stranded rose,
you stop at a bosky bank.
A weeping willow greets
the lost son.

A school bag measures the knowledge
of surrounding hills, who had
plucked out the stars
from the sky.

Satish Verma