Poetry

The dome has collapsed.
You walk in fire on the eve of
exhuming yourself, picking up
the pieces of humming life.

Eye to eye, the patience was wearing
thin, fears had positioned themselves,
at the doors, snarling.
A mass grave was being dug in the distant woods.

On cloudless hills, a raging sun
climbs up to send the dust of miracles,
which never nodded. The faith healers had
failed on ivory stages.

The god is ailing with multiple failures.
Man, are you responsible for this bloodbath
in coldest weather of earth when grievers
were frozen in their tracks?


Satish Verma