Translating Death

Satish Verma

Dancing on the trembling 
flames, virtually 
remaining calm, I was just 
watching your hands― the palms, and 
only the stance of pointing fingers. 

I mimic the death 
in a cage, burned alive― 
or beheaded by a black night 
under the moon. One digit added 
to the depth of an ocean, 
which has no shores. 

One day, you will forget 
me, walk away from the hand-written 
beautiful calligraphy, describing the agony 
of man, who would not drop 
his pen, even, tyranny tearing away 
his limbs.