ONE SAINT WALKED OVER THE RIDGE

Death will not listen; 
still, the candle burns, 
in blue dark 
and sets free the sun. 

Will you hold me tight 
when I shed my identity? 
I was going to start a silent prayer 
for this earth. 

I forget, that I always remember 
the green pain 
which lived in the bones of winter 
when dawn was breaking. 

Night settles 
on secret thighs of shame. 
I still smell the scent of blood 
flowing from the lids.

Satish Verma