A Green Pride Has No Ambition Now

Satish Verma

Walk with me, till moon rises 
on the griefs of the dark, 
and the tongue tastes the pain of centuries. 

On the erected dome 
when the golden leaves start a flame 
which throws up an image of a prophet. 

My nightingale was giving a call 
of a very sad tune, on the death of peacocks - 
but for the poisoned feed, they were dancing. 

A green pride has no ambition now, 
roses were wilting. 
Fever was rising in the roots. 

Do not give it to me, my award. 
Could I have shut up like a fame 
when my house was being ransacked?