In Trembling Smile

Satish Verma

The age has taken 
away the bones 
of tall trees. 

I am drinking 
from the lips of moon, 
the tiny specks of pain. 

Crossing my candles, I 
try to read the dark 
sky, hanging from distant stars. 

What was in store 
for us, secured in vaults 
of future rage? 

Is it the last confession 
of dying bottomless 
present, without a cue? 

The prophets of doom 
are on the doorsteps of a 
long winter night.