Satish Verma (5-6-1935)
I did not will them
dreams of crystals
a stupid calendar of flight
from insomnic past.
Do not want to return to future,
hub of my clouds.
History had been writhing and screaming.
Present cannot redeem my woes.
I ask my bleak, frosted branches
where the birds have gone?
The songs, green hills, divine particles?
When they will enter in frozen affairs?
Anti-matter is now colliding with black energy
I am faltering a rhythm.
helplessly watch a xenomorphic face
disappearing in the blue sky.
Comments about this poem (SWINGING.... by Satish Verma )
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