MUD ON MY HANDS

Green eyes in the crevices of rocks 
will not let the fossil weep 
for innocent sun. 
A mayfly floats like 
a dry leaf on water, in the circuit 
of sharks. 

I offer not my robotic arm, insulting 
the jaws in the crumpled solitude 
of night. I will walk 
with new moon to understand 
the wetting of a bleeder, 
heart and soul. 

The umbilical pain again catches. I cry 
in my own silence. This was not the 
end I wished. Hearing aid 
to feel the sting of a scream, 
which rises from the depth of a blue 
lake wounded by pride.

Satish Verma