Poetry

For the dream slaves
the incense has become a moon
for the alchemic effect of tear’s stain
in erotic war.
Ask a mooner,
will he bring her to bed
for a song to measure the cantus
between flight of strings in midnight?

The small bruises of stars
were playing under the lemon tree
in sinking clouds. You must know
the richness of poverty at night.

This was the theme to play,
it was enough to have walked on golden
leaves of November, while I was collecting
the false truths of life.


Satish Verma