Poetry

A felled tear reflects the rainbow.
I wait for the night.
Moon had promised an audience.

Yes, I will sit beside the moon,
will tell the woes of earth, uncomplaining:
the heat, the dust, the life needles

and expressionless faces of trembling
angels. The heroes were disrobing and
attacking the pyramids of undoing.

I sweat and reel in chilly mornings.
A primitive instinct takes over the
nightmare. The spoons become the swords.


Satish Verma