Feeding The Past

I take me,
in the whirlpool of bridges
for a nonprofit.

Gathering on rocks
begins. Moonlight reads
quickly, the faces.

I would not give you
my speech, my blindness.
Become mute like the call of
a mountain.

A broken cry will save
the poetry, the river,
the sea.

An old adage brings
the solace.
Somewhere a truth sings.

Satish Verma