BABY FACE

Why did not you 
cross the black river 
and remained innocent? 
Unhealed, failed inside, broken and honest? 

You won the race, 
the space, the heaven. 
Moving away to the farthest blackness. 
Your god sits crosslegged, clotting. 

Brown hands on white shoulders, boneless 
move in circle. Deportation 
of words opens the green wounds. 
Birds carry the snow on the wings. 

I was confused, wanted to love 
my broken vowels, for absolute you and me. 
The baby face pops up again 
in my perfection, speechless.

Satish Verma