Seeing was to know that one does not own
what it is. I was amazed at
the glass image of imperfection
and no body knocks out the shame.
Parched land bakes into hard cakes,
opens up to eject out
the dead remains of ideas,
humor of psychoanalysis.
A splendid driftwood mocks a gull
the relative confusion of grace;
one thing for nothing
and nothing for one thing.
A lone voice still haunts
like a puckered prayer of a weeping eye.
The wail, the kiss, the window
and unblinking moon!
SATISH VERMA