Satish Verma
An Angst
Was it kosher to wake
up a sleeping poem, when
someone has burned the book?
A rite of passage
between the poppies?
The soaked swans
were not ready to accept
the challenge of the defining moment.
A smart moon walks
behind me, snooping around the pines,
to drink the brazen lips.
Why small girl walks on the snow
to get the blessing
of the bells?
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