ETERNAL ITCH
When you sing no more
my little bird,
there would be left a voice imprint on the frozen tree,
like a black rose on a white paper.
An anguished truth will search for me
and I will write for you
a lone poem.
This is how I talk to my innerself
when I leave my body.
When I am sad and moth-eaten
and I go back to my empty nest
to fight with life and death
after collecting all my debacles.
A seed sprouts from the dark cave of
mind; against the will of summer.
The river shrinks from the banks.
I rehearse for the final journey,
fully dressed.
There is no cloud in the sky
slowly the eyes are flooded with human share,
my eternal itch comes back.
SATISH VERMA
