Poetry

When the debate between
temple versus state was heating up,
death was passing through a green field.

A nervous embrace
of solatium was unstable.
A heap of flip-flops could not

hold steady, little
poems fluttering in the heart.
Was it the will of God?

The stampede was the anathema
of hunger, the curse of a
whore was working.

Instead of food and alms,
a mass burial makes
me insane.

Was it possible that spring
was far behind? When brassica
blooms, will you forget? Is it not true?


Satish Verma