My Gifts

Moon dust is falling
in melodious rhythm. Again
I remember you intensely.

An immaculate pain
spreads the white shroud. You
walk on it leaving red footprints.

Why I think, not to
think, amended by your tears
before you reached god.

God, I will not repeat
the sin, the crime to test the fidelity
of sun. he burns you to ash.

Ah! the poverty of words
cannot ask cobra to spread
the hood. I want to sleep under.

Satish Verma