Poetry

Floaters swim in acrid clouds, I watch
myself killed by me, the image was real, oracular

ashen grey, sitting on a sand dune
I listen to the silence of bending and roaring faults,

the life repeats the mistake, possessed, chasing
the wheels, fever rising, the swish of a snake,

time; could not make it, daintly the moon drifts on
the dark contours, ripples of a lake, a flock

of birds turns inland into shadows of chorus
a small city of voices seeks freedom.


Satish Verma