Poetry

Not yet, the courage will wait
for the curtain to fall,
will then disappear in awakening;

the crucial thing
was the love of absence
the scythe of eclipsed moon.

Suspense hangs from the tall image
in slow turn of thighs
lips reach the galaxies:

the first cry of new born
pleads guilty,
whispers will never be the same.

My fault, the animal’s feet
carry the burden of the straw,
words brought the grief.

In a triangular fight
my son, my god, my father:
I stand in the center!



Satish Verma