Satish Verma

Let me douse this flame 
with tears. 
My nightingale will sing no more. 

Ringed by dragons, 
I decide to tie knot with a tempest. 
When the birds start dying 

the frightened choir becomes dumb. 
I wait for the butterfly effect: 
the thought was deeper than pain. 

Tension arises. I see the face 
of a moon. Bound but free. 
My security starts a guilt. It was immoral. 

The forgetful, yellow bones of 
a thin father, with a gift to fathom 
the flute, takes hold of the wind.