Swan Song

The toppled gravestones, 
I still count the heads. 
I will go with your swan song, 
the bond erupts. 

You were always sitting under the 
bougainvillea, waiting for the swallow. 
The next door summer arrives; 
Why did you say, it was biting cold? 

The door shuts on the moon. 
It was obviously very dark, 
and I was searching the space 
between ’yes’ and ‘no’.

Satish Verma