Molten Grief

Give me back, 
me back, my affections. 
I had planted the kisses on 
melting lamps. 

The dark tunnel goes 
to a lake for a rendezvous 
with pink death on white lips 
of cinders. 

Such agony of wintering tree. 
Not a single bird 
on the branches to pump the green 
blood for the wheels of time. 

The speeding moon was in hurry, 
to question the oppressed night. 
Why the days were becoming 
shorter and shorter?

Satish Verma