Trembling
Sparks are dimmed. No use
collecting them. I will burn my home
to get light.
My god was sleeping.
Let me use the night goggles.
On the ridge walks a silhouette of
limping buddha,
his neck broken.
I did not help myself
falling. He had asked me
“Are you me ?”
The anxiety of lifting the rock
again. I gather the grass leaves
on my toes.
Nobody wants to ruin the day
looking at baby silence,
featureless, mute.
SATISH VERMA
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