One Saint Walked Over the Ridge

Death will not listen; still, the candle burns, in blue dark and sets free the sun. Will you hold me tight when I shed my identity? I was going to start a silent prayer for this earth. I forget, that I always remember the green pain which lived in the bones of winter when dawn was breaking. Night settles on secret thighs of shame. I still smell the scent of blood flowing from the lids. SATISH VERMA