Poetry

Cereus was in bloom in nightwashed
desert, sand was cool, it tipped off
the contour drain, a river sent its compliments.

If the death was at home, like an
estranged lover, will you open the door
in dusky stripes of morning?

Rubber was burning in afternoon rain.
An alert was sounded in curious lanes;
the shadow was lengthening its stay!


Standing on the burnt-out hull, I count
the shouts of the fathers on artifical limbs.
Bits of violence have broken the sea.

The seedless fruits descend on the glistening
coffin. A city walks with me without end.
There were roses, roses all the way.


Satish Verma