A Grave Question

Satish Verma

The bio sheet remains 
I am leaving the papers blank. 

Singed, as the white coal: 
the ash, smudged on eye brows. 
I have come to rekindle 
the dying flames. 

The anger was mine, 
scolding the scarf in winter storm, 
what was the need to spread the 
white sheet? 

Like you will not write, an― 
apology for kissing a cobra tongue. 
It was ok to become a fool? 

Where a tear sits on 
the edge to fall in silence 
for not undoing the hawthorn?