Poetry

Let me douse this flame
with tears.
My nightingale will sing no more.

Ringed by dragons,
I decide to tie knot with a tempest.
When the birds start dying

the frightened choir becomes dumb.
I wait for the butterfly effect:
the thought was deeper than pain.

Tension arises. I see the face
of a moon. Bound but free.
My security starts a guilt. It was immoral.

The forgetful, yellow bones of
a thin father, with a gift to fathom
the flute, takes hold of the wind.


Satish Verma