Poetry

It was a thorn in flesh
before our fires met in midstream,
the waterplant had become untouchable.

I saw you lying
behind a thin veil,
like a prophet, in timeless agony.


The moon had left a wreath
for a failed worrior,
who could not move into the tunnel.

Entering the childhood again
to reap the sorrow
of a dry fountain.

Ah, in the eternal withdrawl
I come face to face
with my dying earth.


Satish Verma