ETERNAL ITCH

When you sing no more

my little bird,

there would be left a voice imprint on the frozen tree,

like a black rose on a white paper.

An anguished truth will search for me

and I will write for you

a lone poem.

 

This is how I talk to my innerself

when I leave my body.

When I am sad and moth-eaten

and I go back to my empty nest

to fight with life and death

after collecting all my debacles.

 

A seed sprouts from the dark cave of

mind; against the will of summer.

The river shrinks from the banks.

I rehearse for the final journey,

fully dressed.

 

There is no cloud in the sky

slowly the eyes are flooded with human share,

my eternal itch comes back.

 

 

SATISH VERMA