Poetry

A moment of pause was needed
in the eerie lull after the
gathering of dreams, to enter
the corridor of voices.

We stopped looking through
our tongues, across the bitterness
of burning river, after the mud
in our eyes.

The black tar of the golden wood
between us was smearing the family
of crying pillows.


All the silver was tumbling
down from the stairs of calcified
faces of virgins.

The god was yet to be born!


Satish Verma