A Moth Speaks

Fragile calm almost
breaks the silent voice
of dead glow warm
felled by full moon.
There was nothing left
to write about darkness.

Sometimes I don't
understand you in vacant
looks. Weightless you
fly away.

Golden dew drops fall briefly
on hot iron, steamed and
misunderstood.

You are the lust listener
living in wax house. I will not light
the candles for fear of
burning the nest.

The deaf cuckoo
goes on singing with out hearing
his voice.

Satish Verma