Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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A Bird Song

Come, sit beside me
holding my hand.
We will look at the moon.

Bathed in milk,
our life has signed a bond
to become history.

You will not follow―
the stoned eyes. Vision comes
in darkness, in stillness of voices.

The city sinks in creek.
Invaders had snatched the pen
from the empty hands, of lost truth.

All I need, was to
sleep beneath your eyes,
to wash the guilt of dreams, about
the falling snow on your lips.

And you were praying
with your invisible body.
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