Poetry

You toppled the invisible
burning the unburied buttons
joining the history of names.

Will I be able to communicate
with straw to find out the age
of the unarrived seeds?

There is too much violence in
green blood. The broken tooth
bled to death of a truth. The

oratory was becoming a weapon
to break your mirrors. Will there
ever be peace to flying guests?

A service should be rendered
to the poem who burned like a
candlelight in the stormy night.


Satish Verma