Poetry

Code of the veil was
darkening. You were searching for an
unwritten message in bandanna.

Rot was setting in flesh.
Sludge was becoming a stone
for an unmoving stream.
The talks had failed.
Hand-grenades will explode in shouts
later on, to resume the protocol of death.

Where we are going in evening
of woods? To go searching for the sapient
ancestors, in city of fingers?

Years were rolling by in fog.
The arguments were climbing on the
black hills to meet a drunk god.


Satish Verma