HAD BEEN

The most wanted moon 
was writhing 
in black sky, after a star 
fell for a pebble. 

The nymph had become 
a golden nugget in east. 
Sun was rising. 

Guilt of burning the sea 
was writ large on the face 
of purple clouds. 
I am collecting the garments of dew. 

Sitting in a night 
of waves, watching the theater 
going in flames.That day 
a cuckoo did not sing.

Satish Verma