FLAMES OF SONG

Tonight moon will write a poem 
on my hand 
about an almond love. 
I find a breeze. 

Nightmare: I was caught stealing words 
from your lips, a lark 
flies into death, paralyzed 
by peace! 

I will have the baby, I cried 
at the insult to a rape 
of truth, after the brawl 
Pyramid was not made in a day. 

Who slept in the arms of ambers? 
Look, it was an atomic illusion of a guilt 
of centuries. Time walks with bowed head 
like a blind man. 

Baked brown in heat of wars like 
a salted pistachio, perched high on dry 
grass, a swallow watches the rising 
lake with no stones floating.

Satish Verma