Poetry

A mad resurgence of fake locks
paralyzes the arched doors of the hidden
walls, where the roses squirm under
the false kisses of a red moon;

they came again to police the blinds.
The mother digs up the charred body of
her son without singing the praise of
drifting star, till the scars become green.

It was the name of ivory grief, you never
know, when the blue milk turns malignant.
A hairy loss of heritage from the golden
heights of slumber. My constant truth

weeps without shame. This landscape
does not belong to ashes of broken history
of man. The delirium of war on laments
has wiped away the holding lights on shores.


Satish Verma