The Finale
Sleep the dust,
drunk; equalizing the forces
of bluebells.
I am not reaching anywhere.
The garden time
was waning. And I have
not tasted, yet,
the brutal force of juvenile storm.
Who had cheated the blooms ?
Embers had faked the sun.
There were no clouds?
in the eyes of the earth.
It was a holy dance
after a collective wake, for
the ripped apart emotions.
Moon was rising.
Satish Verma
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