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Satish Verma Tracing your eyebrows on paper―
eyes mine, we will
write together our religion.
Each night catches
my moons from the lake
of tears. The days were
becoming shorter.
Surely, I have not
arrived amidst the seekers
of easy death. You give me―
the hope of resuscitation.
I promise myself―
I will not give you a call―
till the nightingale sings in
mango grove.
All night it has rained.
Lacrimal. I prepare myself to
wash my eyes again―
to read your face.
