TURNING GRAY

You wanted to understand
the tenor of wet, heavy lids ―
that had emigrated from
deep oceanic eyes.

You believed―it will go on
for ever. Roused in peace.
I will listen to the voice of river
lapping at the shores of pain.

Cocoon was lying still, will
not open to us. I was ready
to receive the death at door.
But it was a stripteaser.

The lovers will meet in the
wilderness, ride the lioness
and black berries will go to
moon for the payment of wages.

Satish Verma