Poetry

What is the thing of poverty,
of frozen pain,
fury under the snow,
between fire and rain?

You come on the surface
to breathe, douse with petrol
and show off a flame. A slum of emotions
burns with rage.


The masses in the garden
play with a fountain. The screams
bloom into a scam. A dead blue peace,
except the tears obscene.


I am in fear. The pillow was used
to choke the enemy.The ripples were
spreading. Wheels were broken. A child
in a womb cries.


Satish Verma