MOURNING

Throw a nude at him and
he will make it a weapon-
to rape a moon.
Becomes a study to flaunt
the dipping sun.

Not mature enough to
follow the hanging valley.
Going nowhere. The black
sky was immaculately
blameless.

This is the destiny of charred
words. Untouchable now like
a violence from a dew drop. I
will not wipe out the dust
from the bleary eyes of the young spring.

No complaints. I have hundred
of failures to know
that I have not reached.

Satish Verma