Satish Verma

In deep silence
my words float in your eyes,
past twilight.

I will stay in parlor
to watch a lazy moon.
A tarantula starts moving.

An ancient prayer
leaves the footprints on
the skin of dead song.

Let it be stolen
my peace, in the name of
a bitter fight with stars.

The spirit of thumb
to meet forefinger would
remain eternal.