Satish Verma

(5-6-1935)

YELLOW ROSES


Have not written a single
word today, for you.
As if I was fishing
without a line.

Mixing the precursors
on the hills to invite the
mustard moon, for a─
dance with kingfishers.

There was no grief, no
scars. My hands becoming
empty. Parrots are gone.
There was no speech, no goodbyes.

The book is blank. Un─
printed pages. Nothing more
to be said. Only a smoke
tracing a face inside a face.

Submitted: Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, April 22, 2014

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