Satish Verma Writing

Not a single word was written today, watching

I will write a very soft poem for you today.

Very scary, I admit― your vintage―

It was not a jubilee, but I had come to pay my debt.

Like a walking fern, you were. I was talking to you. Why

Colored truth, becomes a hot balloon

You went tounveil your own statue, before being shot―

In unblemished irish, the vision was a link

Constrained. The starlings will

I sleep, I wake for a vigil.

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