Dark Language

Wanted to wear the grief uncrying, sitting on the bank, counting the waves, watching the swaying of earthen lamps. There was a little water on the moon, charged atoms settling in the lap of a sponge. The water becomes the moon, floating on goat’s milk. My descent starts to find the truth. Where the water has gone from the eyes ? The mirrors always tell the lie. The headless body writhes in the dust, words change the author of a murder. A crowd finds a knife only. Once again a century weeps ! Satish Verma