a poem by Satish Verma, India

Unthink like a small frog
stone faced, half closed eyes
sitting on a green lily
Don’t wake up, this empty day.

Madness was too much
in the image of each man
trying not to know the pouches
below the eyes.
Scrubbing their hands again and again
trying to wash the taint, guilt.,
but the stain on the shirt is becoming larger
and tattoo sharper.

The moon is no more honey
no more sweet, yellow face.
Do not cry for the broken mirror neurons
The gift of the plundered morning
is still beautiful.
Go and get your golden silence
that is a fruit, that is the seed.

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