Satish Verma

Standing on black stones― 
in water death, 
I let it go, my pride 
at the end of bay. 

No obituary 
no elegy, 
will erase the thoughts of coming and going 
of moon, when night 
starts crying. 

The smoke-filled eyes 
will speak of the burnt house, 
when the sun was 
telling the truth. 

Setting frozen tulips 
at your feet, I bring the 
river of tears 
to start the day.