Poetry

The toppled gravestones,
I still count the heads.
I will go with your swan song,
the bond erupts.

You were always sitting under the
bougainvillea, waiting for the swallow.
The next door summer arrives;
Why did you say, it was biting cold?

The door shuts on the moon.
It was obviously very dark,
and I was searching the space
between ’yes’ and ‘no’.

Satish Verma