Satish Verma
Homelessness
Bending the forked-stick to find
underground water ―
and immortality of thirst.
Lips were fragile. There were
no dew drops on the upper lip.
It tasted like a frozen moon.
Clouds had sucked the childhood.
No one picks up the fireflies
from dark bushes.
Tasered by stings, the moonlight
hangs by the window.
I watch you undressing.
After the blizzard, a rocking chair
waits. Hypothermia. The musical
return of the mute did not take place.
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