Poetry

Stunning yourself,
after setting ablaze,
circumbulating the tied down god in center,
you start a death dance

for the wasted limbs. How far the
self-immolation was justified
for the young pond of hyacinths?
And as I moved away from this stupidity,

the rains arrived to fill the streams;
glaciers decided not to melt away.
Time stopped me in my tracks to hold
my pen firmly and open the craft page.

Here the street now burns to make
sufferings taller than rewards. You
lie still in the sea of blue pains, waiting
to set fire to strawberries.


Satish Verma