Not To Be Understood Poem by Satish Verma

We were not in the
same book. Gods different,
we were placing dots
and dashes, smelling nights
writing our own epitaphs.

What this insane world
had offered to you in the
family of nonbeings?

I learn to sell my
wounds to buy peace.

The equinox equals
the strange life. Half yours and
half mine.

Undoing the disgrace
of falls, living in glorious
retreat, you do not want
to be understood.

The evergreen grass under
the running feet, would have the last laugh.