The valley holds on, to murder
of moon, behind the trees.
It is dark and clouds are meditating.
You think of a perfect horror
and a poisoned arrow flies straight
into heart of a blissful sun.
It is red, splattered on the wounded sky,
scrorched by shrill cries of crows.
It is dawn.
You feel intense penetration of separateness,
from the beauty of a drop,
reflecting the wholeness of an ocean.
The stress starts breaking you.
Can you take me to my home, into abeyance?
My wakefulness, reaching by silence?
Satish Verma