Satish Verma

Sometimes I will meet myself 
in an unlikely spot 
to tie the loose ends of fugitive life. 
Run, run I used to tell 
my blisters, 
you are caught in a bushfire. 

I will say, take hold of the moon 
and start wiping the stains. 
The antelopes, the trees, the rocks 
will keep your footmarks alive. 

What a crazy idea, I will think 
to pretend to be happy. 
Gods are sleeping, 
vault is broken 
and priest has become a thief. 

A jab in my back, I am bleeding. 
Why not a meaningless word, 
a painless wound 
would play like dolphins 
in my tranquil sea?