Talking Tree
He was worried about the thumbs,
amputated,
so that he could not write
or fire a gun.
The last convulsion was a drag
every pain was going to be memorable,
he etched on translucent arms.
Between the shouts a silent sob
scatters the rainbow.
The writing on the lips becomes invisible.
Sweetheart, don’t go into the rain.
Clouds are wounded and sky is dark.
Shadow of talking tree is becoming longer.
SATISH VERMA
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