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
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