Satish Verma
Come Whitely
Moon injured―
after reaching climax.
At the death of a poem
nobody was ready to climb the pyre.
A collapsed river was
sleeping in your eyes. I will
come and wake up the sun.
Now I am melting.
Some troubling signs were there.
You were becoming vulnerable,
if the rock cried. And you
wanted to die in my arms.
O brute, cold-blooded
murderer, the shadow of the comet
was lengthening. I don't
want any roses for funeral.
A self-image had the last laugh.
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