CHASTE TREE

A poem writes my name. 
I am trembling 
on paper like salt. 

Flowing like moon 
on the black wound. 
The lamb and the skull. 

I know the saint 
invented by masses. 
You need a fresh awakening. 

A vastness from nothing to nothing. 
Later the pebbles will dance 
on the bay of death. 

Sometimes the scales were jinxed, 
sometimes the weight was light. 
I was sitting under a chaste tree.

Satish Verma