A lifetime with a classic pain,
does not give me peace or freedom.
Blind ideas scream,
breaking the antique silence.
Becoming was not,
the ending of desire,
or senile decay of lips.

You were destroyed,
by your weird dreams.
Silver spoon,
seldom became the bread of poor.
Sweated and smashed,
I picked up green
sprigs of sorrow.
It was a gift of sun and water.

Waiting for my turn
to catch the sunset
and the new moon together.
I wanted a life as a leaf,
drifting out on the hill,
touching the stillness of the thing,
the emptiness.

Satish Verma