At Dusk

Satish Verma

Not the salt.
The water hurts.

The frostbite connects
the moment of break.
I will not write
any elegy.

Frivolity takes
away the rose
buds of moon
in dilemma.

Tracing a swastika,
did I ask for your long life?

This was the
oral death of soft
butterfly, who will jump
into bonfire.

You could have given me
a little star.