That roasting night
when honeyed moon hung high
weaving a humming sound
I spoke to clouds.

It happens every night,
when smoke rises to discover the pain
of a falling star.
I start making a god from earth and water.

The colors will come from golden tears
and eaten heart.
From wooden legs and black widows,
from an embattled dream.

The day rises with the mute songs
of unread thoughts.
You reach your otherself
by a back door of hunger.

Satish Verma