Tender Hands

By: Satish Verma

Let time handle anguish of inward truth.
Me, you and him are making a crowd.

Hands were spinning a wheel of silence.
The cause steps in without a noise.

Shaky words were skiming my interior.
No instrument, still the tune was heard.

Enough to carve grains of wood,
where the sobs are cradling in eyes.

World belongs to fractional weights,
color of hills and shape of thighs.

He did not connect, nor did he admit:
was not near it, he was the fact.

Orbit of moon becomes an intimate green,
I will touch your face with tender hands.

SATISH VERMA

Poetry
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