Poetry

Tonight
when I come back
clad in wounded memories,
one seed deep
the pod would lie in the forest of hands,
I will wake you up in between
the kisses of moon.

The hawthorn lamps –
let me light the last unlit
of empty night, for a farewell
to a black rose, who had collected
the unpraised thorns.

The fugitive wind shuts the smart tears.


Satish Verma