In slap at your icarian path
the call was not taken
from inside me.
Anxiety in a troupe of clouds
was rising. A deep dissent
within winds surfaces after sunset.
On the footpath comes a noun
in the land of abuses,
taking a vow of silence.
The moon becomes green
in a blue sky to get
the blessings of surging frost.
Knew nothing about the
future flooding of apples.
Falling from the tree.
Satish Verma
