Rite Of Passage Poem by Satish Verma

There was insurgency-
in white night.
Moon will stay to witness

the murder
of a golden leaf.
What was the promise of a ripe
language? The yellow thrust?
Keeping a date with death was not all important.

There were
lots of poems to be underlined,
preened and straightened. The dirt had
accumulated. A metaphor
will remove the stains.

Any confession will
take away the mystry. Who killed
the nothing?

Unrelenting
the apples were crashing.