SINGING WOODS

Walking out of the body 
I was drowned, 
accepted and condoned by depth of sorrow. 
A wide circle of testosterone 
giving pardon to a sin 
becomes sexless. 

You were overwhelmed by the missed beats. 
Your prosaic crime of not fathering 
the words becomes a belly dance 
for wrinkled verses. There was no meaning left 
for the artifacts, the national shame. 

The autumn was praying for the 
well-being of pine needles in fog. The repetition 
of the outbursts was cold and I 
was smiling.

Satish Verma