Poetry

Gladioli stand in a tantric daze
under siege of prism. The colors fall dangling,
unsettling silent memories.

I thought I was nervous
while playing a smell game of wild guns,
when tanks were rolling out on streets.

A final farewell before exiting
the garden, in my ceremony of death.
A child lies down waiting for the boots.

The wheat grass of beggers,
never to mourn a falling cloud
undesires a dropp of blood on tongue spilling on skin.

A terrified leaf disturbs a mirror,
civilized image of a private crystal, beyond
the virulence of hiding legs.


Satish Verma