CRIB OF SUN

He faked a letter to god 
and slept whole night. 
(Fallen in a creek from a moving train.) 
Indeed, he saddled himself with luxury 
of oblivion. 
The success around him was most obstinate. 

Pretending to condone the arthritis 
of social limbs, he walked straight 
to become what he would be, 
a fakir among riches without fanfare. The 
absolute renunciation, slapping the door - 
shut, for blackness. 

It was visible, the nakedness of brazen lies 
falling like cottonwool around him. He touched 
coral eyes of truth and wept, never to speak 
again. Cosmos would split 
for his journey to home. 

This was meant for you, he said to himself. 
Your own choosing without any regrets. 
His fingers traced the figure of a mother 
of the thin moon, who was assaulting 
the crib of sun.

Satish Verma