Satish Verma

Cupping the water in hand, 
you feel the nativity― 
near the mute swans. 

The silence of a bird, explodes 
before it flies. 
The hands flutter in excitement. 

You take a cipher to 
measure the infinity. Figures 
become drones. One of the 
suspect throws a bomb. 

The quietness of sea, when 
you start drinking the mist. 
I will discover the beauty of death. 

The words will reach, 
when you would not listen.