Did Not We Cry?

Ash and smoke.
I am fever, not becoming
any sound.

Like a lichen, a mycorrhiza
on damp soil,
unfound by light.

Thriving in airless
dark. Will not see the cool―
moon of summer night.

There was no key
to find the invisible.
A random poem will see.

Your painted body
in blue scars, still
remembers the fallen roof.


Satish Verma