Ancient Address
Black emptiness.
Death opens like a flower,
somebody is walking in.
You think of a soft punishment
for becoming faithless.
It was becoming a way of life.
Unlimited agony of wait
something to happen.
Nothing is heard in the field.
No shots. No kill.
Your day was over.
Night descends like a puzzle.
Grey cornea on the white lens:
clouds are playing a game,
mist has a smoky smell.
A city sleeps at last.
A poem I will not read.
It was my ancient address.
SATISH VERMA
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