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by Satish Verma

Afraid of each other
we are hiding from farewell.
At stake was our nest,
you did not want to leave.

I think of kissing the dead eyes
of a phoenix,
I am a flame and I am ash.
The clouds will come as a curse.

Scissors: your lips had tormented me.
Why are we separating the grains?
Transparent hurts?
Something we did not want to say?

A parting gift of silence
will haunt the blind memories.
I am walking on the rough terrain.
You are sailing in the sky.

27-Jul-2011

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