Poetry

The tears were walking along with
laughter. My face was roasted.
The fish-men were moving
the political wheels.

As the chaos was widening,
the humming birds started to depart.
And the seeds were catching fire
from anonymous snipers.

The candle march at night
gleamed the question marks.
The dirt, the smudges, the motifs
and viscera, all were becoming one.

And the grass stinks with the
fallen monarchy, after dismantling
the author of funerals. Give me
a final kiss of death for baring life.

Satish Verma