Satish Verma

June 5, 1935

Night Blooming

Red moon wets
the eyes. I may not
sing back to trees.

You borrow the
light through negation.
Not by awakening self.

Don't invite the
fear. The Mars was rising
with salty streams of water.

And leave your
book blank. I have
to write again the history of truth.

A pure kill, when
you smile with eyes squinting.
Your lips tell something else.

Don't touch the stone.
It was melting.
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