WINDOWS

Sky wept 
when you hanged the young truth 
from a tree. 

A shadow falls 
on the hill 
for a savior. 

A winged flaw 
becomes a legend 
for the sake of a sword. 

A nameless letter 
betrays the will of a cage 
to set the bird free. 

My forehead marks 
the wrinkles of ancestors 
who would not give a name.

Satish Verma

IN ALONENESS

It was a thorn in flesh 
before our fires met in midstream, 
the waterplant had become untouchable. 

I saw you lying 
behind a thin veil, 
like a prophet, in timeless agony. 


The moon had left a wreath 
for a failed worrior, 
who could not move into the tunnel. 

Entering the childhood again 
to reap the sorrow 
of a dry fountain. 

Ah, in the eternal withdrawl 
I come face to face 
with my dying earth.

Satish Verma

SCARS OF LIFE

Want to shed the knowledge 
far from the strings 
and becoming myself again. 

Can you catch the time 
slipped from your hands 
when you were chasing the tiger? 

Phrases were still burning 
like white phosphorus 
on my forehead. 


Where do I take 
the burden of centuries wasted 
in unnatural drums? 

It was inside you, the violence 
of world, yet you want to survive 
without scars.

Satish Verma

WALKING WILDERNESS

It crashed like a chandelier 
my dream. 
Becoming wet, into unhealing existence. 
I was expecting a landfall 
by burst of flames. 

Grieving for a lost generation, 
a meaningless exit from the stage 
of bites and suffering. 
Can you reverse this idea 
of rebirth in the land of nobodies? 

That prison inside will not release 
the doves and I was expanding 
in the vaulted dome of violence 
to discover the wait of a happening 
to arriv

Satish Verma

SCRUTINY

It spurs the hope 
in absent voice for a deaf ear. 
You will wash the ancestor’s prism 
for a natural death of a fault. 

Through me I skim the frozen 
lake of tears. 

Maybe I will watch the tree 
for some sanity to produce 
the blossoms - 

in the starved faith of a 
wanderer who will not speak 
for himself. 

All life he was trying to explain 
without words, 
the enormous efforts he was 
putting to lay down his hands 
on truth.

Satish Verma

BIRTHDAY

Shot in the face an insider 
tells the story of withdrawl 
of the vision thing. 

Crooked hands lift the 
frozen lake to drimk 
the elixir of death. 

Lonely home inspires 
the dark bird to land 
on the window of mountain walls. 

Should have left this day 
untouched by lips. 
I am counting the bridges. 

Age will tell the bones 
to bend like strings 
for a velvety song.

Satish Verma

THE DEAD DREAM

It was a clouded heart. 
I was fidgeting with fate and 
there was no otherway, no way. 
I did not want to keep him waiting either, but 
I must be ready to receive the guest. 


Thief of pain was coming in the blizzard 
for a murky deal. I refuse to fall apart. 
The epitaph was incomplete and Emperor 
was demanding his due of golden sleep. Was it 
the worth of a new born. Sky was overcast. 


Taking the thought to its fossil home. Stings were 
sharp and the next stop was ocean. Water 
of funeral way. Still the sweet lips would 
haunt for the honey. Gone, the wax palace 
was gone, no body was going to light it.

Satish Verma

LACERATIONS

Were you a price victim 
of an unknown? 
You step out in darkness after 
a family fued to walk barefoot 
on bonsai of miffed arguments. 

You do not know the barbs, 
the hidden hate of centuries, 
and yet you must finish the voyage 
to truth, the song of eternity. 

Upon these wounds lies the blue 
eye of a soul, as pure as the Himalayan 
ice, the abode of a quivering god, 
not the terror, not the war, not 
the imprudence of make-believes.

Satish Verma

DAMNED

Discarded, on a heap of broken 
ceramics, a rotten tooth wants an 
award, for biting the snake. 
Who was pulling the strings? 

The temper of a black moon 
beguiles the sun. The green-pathway 
was hidden under the rock. 
Who was holding the baby? 

I am again bewitched by my own 
failures. Searching my legs under 
the bush, my wodden self cries. 
Who was asking the question?

Satish Verma

POSTSCRIPT

The space shrinks 
when moon breaks the black night. 
An aching flotilla does not 
reach home. The wait ends 
in your poems. 

Clutching at floating truths 
you help to save the words 
of predicament. Ultimately 
a temple walks free 
without a god. 

The whiteness of false teeth 
has a regular visitor 
of a bright smile. 
But the tender eyes were telling 
a different story.

Satish Verma