The animal thing inside:
My half-brother,
was unsettling me.
Over the sunset I watch
the drawing procession
carrying the dead body of a tiger.
The light is fading. The stripes
were becoming a myth. The
guest was ready to depart.
I am holding the molten lava
in an urn. In the black sky
a satellite burns to undo the grief.
There is no death, no stopping.
A face pressed between the leaves
of a book smiles.
You come back to me in rains.
I call you by cinders dancing
in the mirror of whistling time.
Satish Verma
