Satish Verma

Sky drank the moon 
when night was cool. 

A lone tree on roadside 
waits for the prowling wolf 

to steal the electric skin 
like the veins on the breast. 

River was flowing 
nudging, cleaving the rising frenzy. 

Still the thirst does not sink 
like the torpedoed sub. 

A dropp contains million faces of a moon. 
A moon does not have a drop.

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