Celebrating Dark

Satish Verma

I do not write about something 
or anything. You will 
not knock at my door.

I will be pained, if 
you sweep the floor, to 
tout the unwritten song. 

I sing wordlessly. Even 
the echo will open 
the waning wounds. 

My body, I give to 
hawks, to escape the 
elegies in the death well. 

Even the night 
will bring the pillow 
for the dying moon.