Satish Verma

You were not present. 
Far from the pallid sky─ 
in the graveyard, 
the marbled tears 
had become the eyes. 

The meanness of the grill. 
It will not fix the sun. 
I stand by a river, 
which was very thirsty─
very deep. 

The silent flight of a 
white falcon takes a dive─ 
for the darkned moon. 
The wingless poem soars high 
to catch the words. 

The jacarandas were trumpeting 
in blue flowers, of the return 
of demigods.

Satish Verma