Bending the forked-stick to find
underground water ―
and immortality of thirst.

Lips were fragile. There were
no dew drops on the upper lip.
It tasted like a frozen moon.

Clouds had sucked the childhood.
No one picks up the fireflies
from dark bushes.

Tasered by stings, the moonlight
hangs by the window.
I watch you undressing.

After the blizzard, a rocking chair
waits. Hypothermia. The musical
return of the mute did not take place.

Satish Verma