Satish Verma

You forget to give me the warning.

After the kiss of
smoky clouds, I was
waiting for the moonrise.

And the rain would
drench me as you did it to me.

I will give more and get less
telling nothing.

It was only a thought,
once now a phrase, that
you are afraid to accept.

In summer, somewhere nightingale
waits for the call.

In a slice of moment, I stumble
then crash.
You become the song of the day.