Poetry

Will the shouts work
on blood seeds in climate of conflicts?
Winter was shrinking.

Give me a hand.
I am going to invite clouds softly.
Let the drumming start.

War has broken out
on many fronts
for a god, for the grains

and for the golden gates.
Where shall we plant
the sacred tulsi?

You need a holy soil for that.
The transliteration of a famished lake
throws a foul smell.

Will you be able to walk
on the ice again?
Outside the climate of change?


Satish Verma