Standing In Fog

Satish Verma

A diminutive moon 
will ask about the infinity 
of blackness, when I 
was waiting in November night 
of a toothed fall 
in a missing success. 

Ahead of time, you 
punch the wailing trunk 
of the fallen tree. I had the taste 
of honey, but who am I, 
a giver of anonymity? 

Withering in a fire house 
without door. I have come back 
to know my ancestory. This 
was my home once, in the 
ancient history of man. This 
was the gift, this was the dawn.