Half-Lights

Folder: 
Satish Verma

With silver spoon, I 
cannot eat your words― 
selling my poverty. 

Another pain comes, 
when you walk barefoot 
in hot sun, to feel the old burns. 

Black moon, and red 
eyes, in white nights. 
These were my poems. 

Your body comes in 
between my blues 
and trembling morrows.