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May 2019
Something is left
out. I ask you
when you are not there.

It was too cold here.
Can I hold your warm hand?

I hear, what I was
not hearing. The voices
live underground, like land mines.

I sing to myself
to make me sleep!

Do not take my moment,
do not trace my lines.
A half-religion separates
the salt of tears.

There is no art in
saying No. Youwill wait
whole life to say Yes.

A red rose bleeds in my hand.
Written by
Satsih Verma
48
   Yann
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