I don’t fake the pain
pain was me.
A grafted rose opens up along the road rage.

This was the city of my birth
my oblivion, my reincarnation
ejaculated from the dark.

Here I found the golden dust
nuggets of truth
and the nostalgia of a broken moon.

The marble white love
and green bowl of arms
a happy valley of stings.

The sun backtracks on hills
when I walk on sands
leaving the deep scars.

A small horizon was my window
hunger of nightingales on branches.
The tree was walking in, my house.

Satish Verma