Satish Verma

You hide behind the words. 
It was my priviledge 
to start the fire. 

Looking at the bare moon 
in black sky, 
you open the blue veins― 

to explore the anatomy of 
pain. Sometimes you want 
to suffer in the hands of impossible. 

Life wants its share of death, 
when you were playing autumn, 
frightening the lantern. 

A nameless breeze offers 
the whiff of a musk deer, 
that lost the tree for scent-marking.