Body And Soul

I will keep mum.
The spirit and flesh of
some words are dead.
The werewolf had become
an executioner.

A sample pang flutters
for a piece of meaning.
So long, I will say to my stars.
No light appears to be coming
from the moon.

The veil hangs from your eyes.
I will not seek your vision.
Only the sacred thought,
you had been hiding,
from centuries.

Suddenly a freckled hand
stabs the propriety. You
hold the rock like Sisyphus.
I stumble, walk in―
and break the pure gold.

Satish Verma