Satish Verma
Faraway
How much you can carry,
carving a deep gorge
during last rites
of a river?
It was a skunky remain
of the civilized terrain
gone berserk.
Oh pilgrim, don’t come
again to wash your feet
in the snow of
painted storks.
Hiding behind the tattoos
my raw galaxy perspires
climbing the graveyard
of old songs.
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