Studing Yourself

Over the shoulder
you fling the pang away
and move on with―
pockets empty.

Sitting aside a―
mausoleum― listening to
the songbirds.

Why do you build a huge
crypt for your love? In summer
noon I will keep on thinking.

From thumb to thumb
I will ask of the ambience―
while building this place.

In your land now grows hate
and anger. The finish is gone,
and finesse suffers.

The nude faces still haunt me.

Satish Verma