Unmourned

You were not present.
Far from the pallid sky─
in the graveyard,
the marbled tears
had become the eyes.

The meanness of the grill.
It will not fix the sun.
I stand by a river,
which was very thirsty─
very deep.

The silent flight of a
white falcon takes a dive─
for the darkned moon.
The wingless poem soars high
to catch the words.

The jacarandas were trumpeting
in blue flowers, of the return
of demigods.

Satish Verma