Poetry

Wanting more of you
in the bed of moon,
where present and past
were disrobing.

The bee stings, O my god,
arrange the pure darkness
of milk,
hanging on persona of future.

The yielding was painful,
its blankness. You were
collecting the hooks. I was letting
free the fish.

Green was my perch
on the white paper,
rewriting your name without ink
for the sake of hunting the lamp.


Satish Verma