Not Your Doings

Satish Verma

A solemn moon 
talking to hills, 
plunged in pain of tainted love. 

I steer quietly out 
of this queasiness, did't want 
to accept the risqué. 

A spider was climbing 
on a wall to weave 
a sticky web for a baby face. 

Like an aspen leaf 
you tremble in even a slight 
breeze of a beautiful thought. 

The garden lizard 
changes the color. Who was responsible 
for the ruins of temples 
and mosques? 

Let me talk to the god, the god 
standing at my door 
engaging the harvest moon.