BLISS OF ANOTHER SELF

Must we go beyond 
the black holes of burned books? 
The flight from the edge of circles 
leaves the dust behind. 
Inside our wings are embedded 
the years. In the sky 
we must part. The parallax is here. 
I will pursue the centuries 
circling over the memories. 


A single page flutters, 
rest of the book is silent 
not skillful technicality, 
only a smuggled simplicity. 
I fall into the stillness 
of a ceaseless motion, 
fall into yesterday. 
The feeling to put out 
the bright candle is very strong. 
A burning solitude. 

Face to face with motionless dream 
the wide space between letters unfold a meaning. 
The absence of central thought 
was the essence. 
Refusing to churn the evidence, 
we forgot that our territories could, 
not hold the bliss of another self, 
of another relay.

Satish Verma