Poetry

Sparks are dimmed. No use
collecting them. I will burn my home
to get light.
My god was sleeping.

Let me use the night goggles.
On the ridge walks a silhouette of
limping buddha,
his neck broken.

I did not help myself
falling. He had asked me
'Are you me?'

The anxiety of lifting the rock
again. I gather the grass leaves
on my toes.

Nobody wants to ruin the day
looking at baby silence,
featureless, mute.


Satish Verma