Poetry

Weaving fine fibres of unripe
beliefs, from a fire base, a blue bird

scrambles, shading the stone valley.
There was no thrift for the cadavers.

The burnt relics were eating away the greens
of tearful eyes. Sun was slugging again.

A gag, a prison, a list; the trial was not
ending. A smell of burning leaves from a

guilt of smouldering garden, seeps through
the procession of thoughts, something which

cannot be questioned. Red blossoms of
clouds distract the blue flames of stars.


Satish Verma