When You Pretend

Satish Verma

You should stop
telling me, that you don't
deserve me.

Come hither
to pay back my anguished
calls. Sky was becoming red.

No Mayday would
be needed. I will not undulate,
will not play with needles.

Between the palm
leaves a death blows
chopping off the hands of artisans.

It was futile to collect
the forget-me-nots. No
angel was ready to come out of bed.

It was a religion
to squeeze the tears,
before you stoop to conquer.