INDIVIDUALLY

That roasting night 
when honeyed moon hung high 
weaving a humming sound 
I spoke to clouds. 

It happens every night, 
when smoke rises to discover the pain 
of a falling star. 
I start making a god from earth and water. 

The colors will come from golden tears 
and eaten heart. 
From wooden legs and black widows, 
from an embattled dream. 

The day rises with the mute songs 
of unread thoughts. 
You reach your otherself 
by a back door of hunger.

Satish Verma