It Was A Trauma

Body blow becomes
a brand.
Talking to trees, hitting the trunk.

You were weird
asking for the blank
book to read the unwritten
poem.

Sometimes you watch the
rains unblinkingly
in timeless stance.

Like an amputee
walking on terrace wall
for a glimpse of moon.

Someone has come
to lie down on the rock
to meet the death―
after the unseen hands painted his face black.

I would weep gently.

Satish Verma