A Love Song
When the intellect was
defiling the unwritten book;
half-read, you reach for epiphancy.
Why you had to kill yourself
on the swing, before reaching-
the peak ? Searching for escape ?
I cannot know you, O flame.
Do not go beyond the sky.
My wings twist like nasturtiums.
Last night a city wept in-
my arms. There were no roses-
left and, no cut glass nudes.
They bleed, when you dig
out the roots. The croci were
planted by me when snow had melted.
Satish Verma
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2015
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