Satish Verma

Move on. O city, you 
were not worth of 
living any more, 
sleeping on your tusks. 

I will not assume 
any other new name― 
when the hurricane 
finally arrives. 

It will not go. You 
can keep scratching 
for whole life. 
Your psoriatic scalp. 

The attempt to 
commit suicide was 
worthless. Nobody 
will write a note. 

I will not invite 
the white moon to― 
break the fast, 
after the bloodbath.