Satish Verma

June 5, 1935
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Crossing The Fog

To undo, what I had
not done.
When you will not give―
me your scars.

No answer was needed,
falling in stutter. It
catches my eyes, the
moon spots.

Prayers you will not
offer, against the organized
crime. But I remember you,
whenever I fall.

Precisely I am hurt.
In the serene lake of your
eyes, a boat sinks. The
gray moon turns red.

The woods are burning. A
spectre of losing you in smoke
looms large. I translate
the agony into a chilled poem.
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