Dust Of Dreams

When you carry
my poems in your eyes,
I will bring the
daisy moon.

Leaping into the
cult of climbing the books.
I lost myself.

The reign of terror
begins in fireflies. I pluck
the tangerines from your
beautiful valley.

The falcon sharpens
its notched beak
to rip apart the pride
of the wild thunder.

An angel bleeds
inside. The ashes are
swept away from
the funeral of lips.

A song echoes from
the far hills.

Satish Verma