Picking Up The Threads

No attachment with the
alma mater. You have
eaten away all the grass.
Bounteous breast was empty.

Like a nun, dropping
the robes, the moon was rising.
Would you meet her in dark?

The night wanted to come
and sit in your lap.
Let us play with cowries.

You know my life was
never in the hands of god.
I was a walking tree.

So simple were the means
of death. Nobody knew
who was me.

Satish Verma