The Swan - Song

Inadequately the clouds covered the moon the wind was soft and silky. The death of shadow was not complete. Stars had fled from groans of night. In the still room poor sentences could not compete with the innocence of emptiness which was in throes of giving birth to a new meaning. Weeping flowers were weaving a song. Memory, my pain, returns again and again I would never go ever to my old house just one for me, it gave me choking sadness. The wanderer me, moves again, to switch the lights on. You are not watching me. I don’t put claim on my words. They came to me from dangerous mistakes. SATISH VERMA