Poetry

They will not come down
with branding iron and bobbing stings.
Instead.
we will walk down the earth,
to meet the silence
in half-lit homes of enemies.

This poverty
of pause
and peeling off from giants of
fences. I send a green rose to you
from trembling hands,
to smell the death of half-truths.


The bridge has collapsed.
We start digging up for the bodies
beyond curtain of bricks and stones,
the iron-grids of flower gates.

Satish Verma