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Let Me Kiss A Flame
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Satish Verma In my pensive moon
I knew you better.
Never to come back from
the winds of East.
I ask my shadow, the prisoner
of stings, where the truth begins?
I will never smear
you with any stain. Culled
from foam-born, goddesses,
you become my apple,
which I would not bite.
From green lakes of eyes
will you pick a new name
and disappear on the wings
of light to become a daughter
of rainbow?
Why did you turn your head,
to have a last look at
the painfinder?
The sun will go down in many colors.
