Poetry

You gave it
when you were poor.
Today I went to unwrap the gift.
The soul! Ripping out from the body
to deconstruct my vernacular pain.

Pulling off the toenails to extract a promise.
Feet first; the birth of a child to die sooner in the crib.
My brother, tell me, do you understand
my imperishable grief.

For a future's peace
sing my poem, sing ascendancy.
For laughing skulls in a killing field,
ideation will become a routine talk.

Give me a hand, brother,
am I insane?
Becoming teeth of wisdom was a crime?



Satish Verma