Some Rehearsals

Satish Verma

Talking to moon tonight, 
in windless night. 
You begin― to reflect― the past. 

I pretend― I am gifting you 
my poems, while bleeding― 
from the eyes. 

You will not read, 
even once, the steaming tears of stones, 
when the volcano― 
spews its molten grief. 

I am gifting you today, forever― 
my summers. 

Snow will rush into my veins. 
I freeze at once, in memories 
of the lone, stark naked, yew tree 
laden with red berries. 

Not poisonous, I am gifting you 
my death. 

Take me in your solitude!