Treasure Island

Satish Verma

(5-6-1935)

The Tragic Intimacy


A crisp moon rejects the night,
the words retreat, like fallen truths.
Stillness was palpable
silhouettes moved in vacancy.
And we did not know where to go,
how to find the cause of life.
World surged forward like a spider.

The dust, the heat
and a breathing sorrow
met in the twilight
of immaculate pain.
I hated the drooping lights
and burning of feathers.
Birds were dumb
to say how cruel
the benevolence had been.

I fell upon a thorn
who witnessed my incarceration.
A fire in my eyes, I glowed like a volcano.
Fogs were hanging
like veils on eyes of moon.
I tasted lichens in mouth.
The tragic intimacy
of an old poem.

Submitted: Sunday, November 11, 2007
Edited: Sunday, April 24, 2011
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