Satish Verma

Face to face, I was bewildered. 
What was happening to the garden? 
My body left in absent seizure; 
words had destroyed a beautiful poem. 
I was listening without blinking 
like a blue moon 
or the serene lake. 

The interlocking in no-man’s-land 
under a red rain, 
somebody puts a hand on my shoulder 
to bring out the sorrow, 
the salt of my tears, sandscapes 
of smooth bones. 

Becoming something was music to ears 
twisting the gaps. 
Seeds of the brain, nude as the beach stones, 
round and snug, somebody wakes the water 
in the breast, kicking up the turmoil 
I was nobody, nobody. 
It was all lies.