A SICKENED CRAFT

Waiting for a chaste bread, whole 
life under the moon, 
to speak off the inconsistency of 
happiness, 
with a monologue 
of a needle in eyes 
for a madness of sublime verse. 

Canoeing in a frozen lake 
for a stranded rose, 
you stop at a bosky bank. 
A weeping willow greets 
the lost son. 

A school bag measures the knowledge 
of surrounding hills, who had 
plucked out the stars 
from the sky.

Satish Verma