Poetry

the whispering voices
laid down the arms on the skull of the leader,
father of pain, then asked the guns to fire
a last volley towards home

targeting the prudence of fingernails
who crossed the gap
seventy thousand years ago,
the progenitors with exposed genitalia:

the dead man's mouth was full of
secrets, my god, they were frozen pistons
of sugar, face bloated of pride,
absolutely white,

the skin had been very kind
a pink shade of poetry, you deliver
a rose for unnamed soldier
I break the windows and mirrors



Satish Verma