Poetry

The wind was talking
about the fever of thoughtless verdict
of a wrong moral
for a clean exit.

In these times of conflict
during green burial, you will not
start a dialogues for fear of
annoying the priest.

The sun was digging out the
cotyledons from the reactors,
the tainted water will take the revenge
on shocked sky.

A hole is dug in the heart
of scavengers. They will not
find the healthy food any more
in this shirtless crowd.

Satish Verma