Poetry

traveling backward in dark to meet
my father I held the hands of my grandchild

in broken dawn of random spring to collect
the lost years of old house where we could not

meet and he sat feet resting on the thighs
in the valley of unwritten letters and thin

silence, you left before I knew my thumb
had your skin, climbed to despair I untied

the knot and had a fatal, pure wound, which
like a lantern still burns in the eyes of

my offsprings unabated, the seeds and salt
and bloodstained umbrella will cover the street


Satish Verma