Satish Verma
The Healer
An all pin pricks again
draws blood from empty hands
blank papers fly.
Trying to learn Braille
to write a canto
for unseeing Budha.
Unbroken tinnitus violates peace.
night is also blanking the vowels
Pain has become wordless.
Light can only be assumed
fleeing from the moon.
only breeze gives the hint.
The burning grass scrolls back:
there is no healer
in the bush.
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