BURNING

After the puppet show, 
the nest was calling. 
Indeed, the leaves held the slanted light 
expanding the shade snared on branches, 

of dancing ash, of almond eyes. 
Why the hangman was waiting 
for the echo? The river was calling. 

Was this the inheritance of less 
talent of pugmarks, which strayed 
into the city of abused words? 
The book was calling? 


After birth there was no death of my 
rhyme. The flesh has gone, only 
the burning bones are lying 
on bed of roses.

Satish Verma