A squirrel on a stone bull
revives a genre,
after a black rose
fell on the lips of tremor.

One amphibian was always there
part in water and part on land.
Climbing on words,
to become an avis -

the avatar of a flying god.
There was no song -
on the bridge of tears. Let us
share a lost dream.

Do you find seashell in the
desert of diction? Here once a
river flowed under the rocks.

Friends don't squeeze the moon.
It was honey in a blue urn,
collecting the morning rays.

Satish Verma