Poetry

Stealing stones from skinny faces
snipers scratch the colors
of a withered moon at night.

It was anti-rape rally, the footsteps
falling in unison, the blood running out
of strange fruits

and we topple the golden grass under
the toes, hissing at tall trees who could
not protect us from descending fog.

There was no truce. They will not
lay down the arms on table before
sun rises to resuscitate.


The pilot has died on controls. Snarled-up
fingers will not let go the wheels.
The pain has no other name.

Satish Verma