Poetry

They walk in dreams
nightmarishly
spirits of nameless faces
staring without eyes.

The screams:
of a child
on whom you poured boiling water.

The screams:
of a girl made to wear only flesh, because
she ran away with a priest.


The screams:
of a wipped woman
who tasted the laughing moonlight.

Death makes a big hole
in a spooky silence!
Are you listening?


Satish Verma