Poetry

One crisp scaffold.
Was it possible that it became generous?
For the street which turns
the mutation into xenograft.

I pretend to be which I am not
for fear of dying daily or sleep no more
in the lineage of hope. The gallows
are set on every corner.

I walk behind blackness to hear
the steps of moon in exile for vindication
of sober sins against the sky. The blue
souls were going to release the verdict.

Without rejecting the will to count the stars.


Satish Verma