Poetry

It was a big trauma.
Granary went overboard,
my boat was torpedoed.

No romance was left now.
At the burial of the moon
aliens were arriving.

You do not want to call it a genocide.
The massacre of millions, of children
and women. The civil war was inside you,

not in the homes of innocents. A god
falls on the rail-tracks to commit
suicide. His severed limbs I would not see.

I want to close the window,
as the white dove was carrying
dead leaves for a mass grave.

Satish Verma