Satish Verma
Your Tresses Of Night Shade
Do you know my
love, where the road ends
I will meet you
one day.
Life had been always angry
with me. Sometimes I would
sit quietly, doing nothing, and
looking at the hanging―
earlobes of Buddha.
Cannot hone my thoughts,
how to stop the violence.
The Sunday moon―
cracks open like a cotton flower.
The vandals,
I am done with. The headstones
separate the faiths. It was
a punishment.
O bronzed man, don't
hide the gold.
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