Poetry

In the orbit, fear was invisible;
was not seeking anything, just wanted
to become a stone;

break my body into seven rocks,
each one becoming a rhyme
never to die;

said, I am, now, is, not mildewed
past, not grizzly future.
Every moment myself.

Tree, river, cloud and mount
become aboriginal alphabets.
Sun walks alone.

Behind the death, another miracle
seals the lips of a dumb;
Only eyes will speak now.


Satish Verma