Poetry

Something was not polite in signs.
The smell of incarcerated bed of gods
was floating down.

A subdued shadow of black moon
was climbing on the window. And each
house had offered a son, to rage

a war of retribution. Malice towards
one and everybody, they were ready to cut the
hands who were holding the book.

Out of the ore comes out the gold, when
you use mercury. Vacant eyes have the
veils of tears. Dampness was melting the bones.

The mud on the face, a gift of birthday.


Satish Verma