Satish Verma
Feeding The Past
I take me,
in the whirlpool of bridges
for a nonprofit.
Gathering on rocks
begins. Moonlight reads
quickly, the faces.
I would not give you
my speech, my blindness.
Become mute like the call of
a mountain.
A broken cry will save
the poetry, the river,
the sea.
An old adage brings
the solace.
Somewhere a truth sings.
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