Face to face, I was bewildered.
What was happening to the garden?
My body left in absent seizure;
words had destroyed a beautiful poem.
I was listening without blinking
like a blue moon
or the serene lake.

The interlocking in no-man’s-land
under a red rain,
somebody puts a hand on my shoulder
to bring out the sorrow,
the salt of my tears, sandscapes
of smooth bones.

Becoming something was music to ears
twisting the gaps.
Seeds of the brain, nude as the beach stones,
round and snug, somebody wakes the water
in the breast, kicking up the turmoil
I was nobody, nobody.
It was all lies.

Satish Verma