The Eternal Itch

Satish Verma

One eyed closed
I would never know you.
Tormented― you have
to come out of your skin.

Time-lapses backward.
I draw the boundary
on sands to invite the invisible.
I know you would never come.

I shake hands with moon
in green valley of begonias.
There is no roof, no sky.
Only colored foliage of dreams.

Like deaf and dumb weavers
singing an autumn song.
Cuckoo will sing no more.
Tapestry was badly ruined.

Do butterflies laugh?