Satish Verma

You were not listening, 
when I said― 
" After offering my head, 
I will go into deep sleep " 

Coyotes were gathering. The 
prairie was on fire. Under 
the feet, the smoke was bursting. 
You had started eating your toes. 

Carrying the burden of unsavory― 
reputation, the books were not 
telling that time has stopped 
and no lyrics were left in religion. 

Sometimes in night, I will 
hear the soft notes of a flute, 
when, moon was rising and 
muse will come and I would ask 

" What was the need of inventing the hell? "