One by one
leaves had gone,
several and many times.
Lone tree, standing naked in dry wind
was ready to walk.
In inward aloneness
to know the roots.
You look straight into the eyes of primeval
suffering. Under a cramped disguise of happiness,
behind the glassed life.
For the clawed, weeping silences
who had turned away from the shrill voices.
Night of burns,
and promised beach of immortality
shoulder to shoulder.
Satish Verma