Poetry

Fear grips a family of words.
You are going to where you do not want
to go.
I remain worried about the unknown.

The inevitable was flowering
on dead palms.
Would you exhume the past to find out,
what the divinity has buried
along the panicles of croci?

I do not understand this war
between glaciers and guns.
Can we drink together the elixir
of death dripping from the snow peaks?
Sun was screaming from the unblooming trees.


Satish Verma