Poetry

What do you think
a redemption of a clone will work
in the galaxy of stars?

The hope was drying and violence
refuses to decline in the valley of flowers.
Orphaned moon climbs up the hill
to preside over the murmuring truths.

Nothing seems to work
for the liberation of long night
and the winds put off the lantern’s light
which was standing on the shore.

A black widow crawls on my chest
for a certain drenching by a sucked heart.
Still I stare at the black eyes
for a washed up death.

Satish Verma