Satish Verma, 11 marca 2023
Like sphinx I put up
before you, three questions.
What was in a name?
A bane? Deceptive
image of a sin? Don't
give me everblooms.
You give brief
answers. I should know them. I
am setting you free.
Satish Verma, 10 marca 2023
A secret poem for
you, to forget myself lost on the
noiseless sea.
Of words. Reclining
Buddha in dilemma, to
wake, not to wake.
I was on voyage
to find the bliss of salt
in starvation.
Satish Verma, 7 marca 2023
How do I carry the
moon, wherever I go to search
you between the clouds.
Gradually, thoughts
become homeless. Can't catch
the wheezing flies.
Blaming self, the trunk
dies inside. No sap will
rise. No glue will roll.
Satish Verma, 6 marca 2023
I want you to call
me, when my shirt was stainless
and sun was rising.
The monarch lands on
my book to read the verse―
meant for the moon.
The empty mind spins.
Script was totally burnt-out in
my voicelessness.
Satish Verma, 5 marca 2023
The first stitch
of the poem. Painless words.
There was no song.
The lull before the
blast. Buddha bends to pick up
the tangerines.
Deep orange-red
sun rises to name the sin.
There was no saint.
Satish Verma, 4 marca 2023
Love blooms in hush,
like cranberry. It heals soul,
half moon, half stings.
Gives you wisdom
to singe without flames
in month October.
Woe was done for,
when the snow comes in
to cover the scars.
Satish Verma, 3 marca 2023
At dusk, I will smear
your lips to color the moons.
Acts like Midas touch.
The dunes tend to
shift from the shivering hands,
when the knuckles bend.
The scope expands.
You will walk on periphery.
I will tow the line.
Satish Verma, 1 marca 2023
The fire thoughts rise,
when the stinging stubble burns
on your green face.
It doesn't smell, the
forked tongue. Taste was
sweet on the skin.
A crimson twilight
narrates the glory of sun,
inviting the moon.
Satish Verma, 27 lutego 2023
Would you remove
your mask once, and come to
me as you are?
Don't throw the pebbles
to skin my pain. The wound bleeds,
to quote the past.
I ask myself to
be quiet in this moon time.
Saint was turning red.
Satish Verma, 26 lutego 2023
When Rilke stops
whispering, I search
the cut flowers of gladioluses.
You don't speak
at all, blinking your eyes
anxiously. There was no
spate of quivering lips.
The exodus of long
breaths had the lethality.
Words come and go like,
a bunch of bees.
My problem was,
how to meet my beautiful
end.
The culture, the
wisdom would wait for
the angels.
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