Poetry

A golden cave was afraid
Of a blue thrust.
Hands were not able to console
the mirror.

Let us step back for a
last laugh. You were talking
to yourself when the canary was
set free from the house arrest.

Ah, the paradise, after all, was
a myth. You had to beg for a violin
for democracy and stoop to pick
up a horsehair bow for playing the anthem.

You had cut your fingers in a fake war
with the moon.It was a miracle
knocking out the stars. A self-made
wound will never need the sutures.

Satish Verma