Unmourned
You were not present.
Far from the pallid sky-
in the graveyard,
the marbled tears
had become the eyes.
The meanness of the grill.
It will not fix the sun.
I stand by a river,
which was very thirsty-
very deep.
The silent flight of a
white falcon takes a dive-
for the darkned moon.
The wingless poem soars high
to catch the words.
The jacarandas were trumpeting
in blue flowers, of the return
of demigods.
Satish Verma
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