Poetry

After the weep there was blankness,
then he started playing with fire
for existence, of a rain
which refused to shower.
It was a fierce night of a hidden drought.

A lethal dose of amnesia
dissipates the calmness of a hangman:
waiting to cut the cord of resistence:
moon will spy on the cold-blooded
murder of a white ego.

This was the aftermath of the soaring
food prices of soul songs. People were mowing
the tall grasses of dialects, sensing
the wind, onslaught of gathering storm.
Morning sky was pale and withdrawn, full of sorrow.

The dignity calls for the last prayer
for a lesser portrait!


Satish Verma