Moving Into Fog

A Poem by Satish Verma

Moving Into Fog

It was difficult to
shut the window. Moon
was casting a spell.

A hill mynah in
golden cage wants to
start soul searching.

Will you peel my
thumb, so that I can smear
the blood spot on your forehead?

Why did the sedge give
the papyrus to man? I don't
want to read the tumultuous lineage.

Let the flogging stop.
The weeping dawn will not
witness the slaughter of moon.