Poetry

At the end of the thought
was sadness.
When temple lies broken
a little white lotus comes up
on the tranquil lake.

A cute word enters the lone voice,
stands down, collapses, retreats into silence.
A chaste tree becomes a sage
and tenderness of the ash turns into an elegy.

The moon-face has frost on the eyes.
Tears blaze the lips.
Unbounded grief holds the space between
sobs, a bodiless spark.

Moons ago when sleep was a fragrant
gift, the song never touched the earth.
That dream sways like a Chinese lantern
without enthusiasm.


Satish Verma