Come Again

Satish Verma

Intercepting the random 
poems, pick not 
the holy water, in your palm. 
I cannot lift the words. 

Dark bellies, in moon's 
autumn, will play with flutes. 
You will swoon on the 
sight of blood at the hands. 

It was not the first time, a 
lamb in the midair― 
falls on the golden spear of 
new theme, to bluff the naiveness. 

Somebody takes a turn, to 
find the bell, which will not send 
any sound, on the death of 
the poppies.