Seizing a chance in
a trice, in one dark September
night of apotheoses-
a bird crashed in my
lap. I would not know
the virginity of the strange surrender.
The windows were tall,
with the black laces violating
the sovereignty of light.
I will not know you, will
not call the black magic,
will not transcend the body.
The white lilies were
staring down at water.
Was the dawn nearby?
Satish Verma's Other Poems
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