Poetry

Blue poppies were poised
to meet the regret of thighs,
mother of sins.

No flesh now covers the eyes.
A candle burns a green
thumb. A silver bowl breaks,

spilling the milk of nudes. Liars will tell
the story of honour killing.
We were tired of listening

to ravens taking a flight.
No one had seen the corpse.
Only black bones will tell the truth.

Have you seen the holocaust?
It was inside my pen! my write!


Satish Verma