Poetry

In a temple without god,
They performed a cryptcastration on a colossus,
targeting a total annihilation,
and liquidation of a beautiful saga.
And then, layer by layer unspeakable pain was released.

Nobody looked at my red eyes.
Half dead, half alive, groaning, spurting, dumb, dishevelled.
I was shouting, running in the dark alley,
the legendary mountain has collapsed.
From the cocoons come out skeletons.
Not true, not true, they were crying in unison.

Archaeopteryx without apron looks scary,
Let’s move to a different showcase
see the birth of a Caesar. How it rises from
the womb of democracy? How the thaw comes in a glacier?

The eyes of a tyrant sometimes look gloomy.
Is it possible to start a bonfire of lover’s coat in the chair?
Cast off the milkteeth and start from void?
Stretching the boundaries of death and immortality?
I am terribly confused and burned out.

The astral bodies sometimes look so good to me,
faraway from this ugly world.
At least they shine in their own light.
But we were always busy counting our awards
of gold thread, earned by dark strategies,
to make other feel small and ashamed!

You were talking, of self inflicting injuries
was a way of life,
with some people to purify their souls.
But I was wondering about soulless people.
How much they were pollulted and blackened
inside their lungs?

Strange it appears to talk about spirituality
in a slum of poor thinkers
where we were living beyond death.


Satish Verma