Hunting The Dreams

Satish Verma

Place the midnight―
lamp near my bed. I want
to read my biography.

From opus of pain,
you climb the sands.
Sun, heat and glare.
Then blasts.

You were not reaching
anywhere. The mountain does not
come to you.

The lamb in your
chest raises the head and
strikes the trembling moon
in water.

Silenced. You scalded
the words. A dismal, distraught
mood. The night enters
your flesh. Eyes burn
to give light, going beyond thoughts.