Poetry

At ethnic moment
on the moonfront, artless impressionists
of parallel conflicts with anxious looks
come to share the self realized truth
of mangled uncertainties,

watching your own dead body:
small chicks huddle together for contemporary
thoughts of violence-to kill or not to kill-
humanity walks with bent head
listening nothing:

I am desperate, the moon was stone faced
black holes bleed and throw the crystals
of red light: dropp your pen and hold the death
on doorway, morning wind was coming
from the seaside:

for dissolution of your ego, I would go for a long swim.


Satish Verma