Green Wounds

Satish Verma

You have your own
words, hired from my
lips. Ad libbed I will
go dumb.

There was instant
empathy with fireflies.
They don't sing while burning.

It was a highlitened
pain, when I moved my
dark fingers on your
white skin to write a poem.

Who was picking
marbles after breaking
the glass windows?

Love was not
a job to be completed.
It makes you immortal
in your grave.

Is this was my
punishment? I will not
see your hands?