Poetry

Only the love-birds will know
it was time of inquisition.
There was a lot of prodding in
the neighbourhood.

A voice without sound
was resenting with guilt-virginity
and the bell tolls
for a zero hour.

The entrusted trust was
still moving off the transparency.
Was it not a weird night?

The newly hatched babies,
jutting out their necks
from their clay homes were
to know the roots of verbs.



Satish Verma