Blue moon of white night, wants―
to bring down the sky
in a spiritual bliss.
Talking of reincarnation,
I am skinned alive, like
a cadaver, talking ceaselessly.
You are burning sans fire.
In absence of god, you
become a god father
to a beautiful progeny.
Leave aside the lineage.
On the horizion, a flock
of swans was returning
home to spread the watercolors.
The recluse comes out from the oblivion
to greet the inevitable.
Satish Verma
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