Poetry

Never in those sizzling conflicts
displaying the pink eyes
you were able to reach me.
Was it metagenesis,
forgetting your selfhood?

Fragments of a beast were floating on sea.
Was umblicus of death broken
in the crotch of a mother?
Lay the corn again on my palm
to smoulder in the heat of sun.
Hunger will take revenge now.

Burn, burn my truth, burn!
I was the creator,
and I was destroyer
at the helm of unbuttoning coal.

It was a black, black sky,
where the stars were hesitant to show their
centrioles.

After the sun rises in a black dawn
there will be no shocks.


Satish Verma