15 June, 2010

BEAUTY

In the dust storm 
a discarded moon 
sat in my lap. 

Then internal rhythm 
crashed. 
Amorphic I would not find the music 

of words translated into a kiss. 
Gold started weeping 
in my hands. 

The clouds will rest 
after committing a sin, 
of letting out the sun.

Satish Verma

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