Poetry

He returned empty hands.
Death was casually running around
on charred bodies.

Was lank poetry of a ruthless god.
The house was on fire after
selling its children. The days were becoming
longer than life.

Casus belli, whom do you want to name
the culprit, when everybody was fighting
on a new front? We talk of truth in small
tablets, in small moments.

The hills were burning, one after the other.
Barefoot walking, all mind, mother earth
don’t go to sleep.



Satish Verma