Can You Take Me To My Home?
The valley holds on, to murder
by Satish Verma
of moon, behind the trees.
It is dark and clouds are meditating.
You think of a perfect horror
and a poisoned arrow flies straight
into heart of a blissful sun.
It is red, splattered on the wounded sky,
scrorched by shrill cries of crows.
It is dawn.
You feel intense penetration of separateness,
from the beauty of a drop,
reflecting the wholeness of an ocean.
The stress starts breaking you.
Can you take me to my home, into abeyance?
My wakefulness, reaching by silence?