Inadequately the clouds covered the moon
the wind was soft and silky.
The death of shadow was not complete.
Stars had fled from groans of night.
In the still room poor sentences could not compete
with the innocence of emptiness
which was in throes of giving
birth to a new meaning.
Weeping flowers were weaving a song.
Memory, my pain, returns again and again
I would never go ever to my old house
just one for me, it gave me choking
sadness.
The wanderer me, moves again, to switch
the lights on. You are not watching me.
I don’t put claim on my words. They
came to me from dangerous mistakes.
Satish Verma
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