TREMBLING

Sparks are dimmed. No use 
collecting them. I will burn my home 
to get light. 
My god was sleeping. 

Let me use the night goggles. 
On the ridge walks a silhouette of 
limping buddha, 
his neck broken. 

I did not help myself 
falling. He had asked me 
“Are you me? ” 

The anxiety of lifting the rock 
again. I gather the grass leaves 
on my toes. 

Nobody wants to ruin the day 
looking at baby silence, 
featureless, mute.

Satish Verma