Satish Verma, 12 listopada 2019
The thirst will know,
the river was there.
To lie on the grass was ultimate.
It was not the green,
it was not the blue,
but desire had the keyhole to look
at the fine sands,
where you stand to find the
elixir of life.
A crackling of joint, awakens
you. You will not wait
for the rains to come and overwhelm
the permeable umbrella.
A fluttering butterfly
knows, how to become floppy
and dangle like a dead leaf.
The stream was
drinking its own water.
Satish Verma, 9 listopada 2019
The evil city? You
become the smallest
light.
The lamb did not save
the godman. I was
praying loudly.
It was falling apart.
The concept, the belief
the palace.
Years roll by. Until
the priest was shot down
on the street.
You marvel at the
turning of the mountain.
How do you climb down the salt?
Satish Verma, 7 listopada 2019
Sometimes, I want to write
a folk poem, without name.
Anonymously, you want to
postpone the commitment
to accept the murder
of yourself,
the griever.
The towering belief―
that there were skeletons
on the grains, as the words
become verses.
A snowy virgin
will take a knife, to bring
down the stars
when you sing centuries
of love.
Satish Verma, 6 listopada 2019
Constrained.
The starlings will
not fly today.
There was a hole
in the sky.
The god particles will fall.
Drawing out
the blood of fallen―
angles, on the street.
Can you count
the sins of man?
We still celebrate the hate.
Satish Verma, 5 listopada 2019
A butterfly
in a bell jar.
All I know, we understand
each other.
There was no sun
at midnight.
Only a blue black
dilemma of―
the sky, to burn
like human combustion.
I am ready to start
a journey with sunbeams.
Satish Verma, 4 listopada 2019
Segment by segment
the secret breaks. There was
no song afterwards.
A robin hops on the dirt road.
Time was scare.
Living water was escaping.
Visibility has not changed.
I walk in great agony
without you.
The fabric was loosing
the color. The book will
never be complete.
I enter the colosseum, for
digging up the voices―
buried in the throats.
The daffodils wait in
backyard for the ceremony.
Light has come in the eyes.
Satish Verma, 3 listopada 2019
I would let it go
anything now. Will not accept
any grace.
I am moving unfazed―
buttons apart. Let the night
descend.
A hired applause was not needed.
As the gorgeous earth plays its last tune.
I will wait in the lobby, to fail again.
There was no repeat
of the deciduous teeth,
coming back to chew your fingers.
The small steps you won't
take to bridge the unknown.
Scoping the language, watching
itself dying.
Satish Verma, 2 listopada 2019
Stoned to death.
The rooted plants had begun
to climb the mountain.
Very hot here.
Difficult to breath in.
Why lesser flamingos were landing
on dry lake?
They enter via back door.
The multi-tuberculates.
Why the man was
running away from the orchids?
Strange, our lineage was
getting interrupted, by
smoke screens.
Satish Verma, 1 listopada 2019
It takes billions of years
for ancient light to reach us and
rescue the trapped darkness.
You can hunt among rocks
in the palisades, behind
the ramparts.
There was an apocalypse.
Stem cells were ready
to repair the myelin―
searching ancestry.
It was a tense stand-off
between the headstone and a living dead.
Cannot repay the debt of blue
Sky, sending us
the warnings of catastrophy.
Satish Verma, 31 października 2019
I will meet the moon
on the terrace,
when the dust settles on the
lids, smothering
the uncharted barricades.
Life had been full of dresses
to play the lead in
conflicts of alliance vows.
Like untouched goodbyes,
you hover around the exit―
to seek the blessings of dark.
In the glasshouse, you cannot
walk nude. The wounds, the scars
the burnt-out fabrics
will tell the truth.
A priest will invoke
the mercy of the vessel.
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