Treasure Island

Satish Verma

(5-6-1935)

NO STRINGS


A fast in hurry. you
pretend that you
were dead.

The legend survives,
putting the land’s blood
in the grass roots.

The tremors had started
in the blue flame. A lunatic
calls for the moon to explain.

The tides were not coming?
Watching hopelessly;
the decline of sinkers.

A watershed of humility.
The river has left the
body of water.

Submitted: Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Edited: Friday, September 13, 2013

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