Poetry

Again I would hear the night sounds
through the hours of civilities
when there was a pause in the body
untouchable.

You were sleeping with counterfeits,
running down the golden dome
sailing over the silken clouds.
My rough palm was still holding the pen.

That mirage, that fire on the road
had cheated us. You had pushed me in an
aging portrait. Alive, I am looking at you
from an empty glass.


Satish Verma