SINGING WOODS

Walking out of the body
I was drowned, 
accepted and condoned by depth of sorrow.
A wide circle of testosterone
giving pardon to a sin
becomes sexless.

You were overwhelmed by the missed beats.
Your prosaic crime of not fathering
the words becomes a belly dance
for wrinkled verses. There was no meaning left
for the artifacts, the national shame.

The autumn was praying for the
well-being of pine needles in fog. The repetition
of the outbursts was cold and I
was smiling. 

Satish Verma