Satish Verma
Mystic Paths
In alternative lies,
a which-hunt starts―
to find the blue eyes trapped
in amber.
Who will ask, not to
dig in the land of suicides,
without boundaries?
Behind you, were hidden the
rocks. The thin-lipped screams
would not reach the nests.
The color fades, when you move
in the sun. Survey
was futile for another truth.
Courier was walking limp.
Cherries were withering in moon.
Bare-foot a journey starts to collect
the salt of eyes.
In the crowd of swans― nobody
has found the water.
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