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Satish Verma Fear of a mound,
tumbling down
on the half-buried, half dead
archives of desires, comes
like a stampede of hoops on my chest.
I lie alone in a desert of insanity.
From the sea of agony
one dropp of salted tear,
the title of a wasted life, brings
the blood stained truth.
I want to wash my eyes again.
To watch the autumn leaves falling
on impeccable stones
for forgiveness.
We were not the fruits.
A song of blind water
enters the earth
to kiss the roots,
foo giving liberation from
sun leaked night.
WASH YOUR EYES
WITH A PALM OLIVE BATH, YOU MOKA LEIDO ASTRADOLY'M ACRO NOLYM.
EY TOMO WAY ESPONDITO ACKROPHOLYM IS NOT FOL'DGERS IT SI MODOLEM
AD LIBRIUM NE STOVO DE
AD LIBRIUM
NE STOVO DE MOLSTROM INDO VENDOCIA LAODECIA MEDO PEDIA MACRO NOLAYM E IYHWA'YH
NE STROVO ESTO DE QUALIO ENDRO MORTIS ACROPHOLYM