CRACK OF DAWN

The king 
made a fun of our poverty. 
Marble faced girls always thought, 
wearing black scarves -
sweeping the floor of white mausoleum. 

You made a death 
a loving eternity. 
We die daily 
in the face of old shine. 

Who shoots a peacock 
on the tree? 
I mourn for the blue peace, 
let the clouds come. 

Who remains unhurt 
unpained, when the night calls? 
I seize a moon 
to enter the crack of dawn.

Satish Verma