The Dumps

A Poem by Satish Verma

The words had started to fail me. There was always an ‘if'―

The words had started to fail me.
There was always an ‘if'―
before every war of hunger.

The candlewick has burned
out. I am collecting the―
wax from the eyes.

Wrapped agony, now lifts
the dead bird from the
rose bushes.

The frosted god
will melt to bare a
black stone.

I am not luck
I am not the future.
You know where this path leads into?