When the sun goes down bleeding
beyond the hills yonder,
I will meet you under
the acacias.
As a souvenir I will keep
your lips in my books for history.
As a gift I will give you
my tears.
This desert of hate has bleached
my fingers, bone white.
I cannot write a monologue
of death in waning light.
I wake to sleep in blasts.
My palms hold out the great silence.
Satish Verma
