Poetry

Signs versus shadows in city
of reasons burst amnion.
White cranes manipulate black clouds,
smudge the nomenclature.

I want to become deaf
in grazing blasts. Young lovers
dance on machetes; nifty wounds
of red alpines.

Thieves loot the basket of zodiac,
death on tall trees.
Even the grief has enemies,
for another farewell to sky.

You could hear the finger tapping
on the empty belly of little girl
from the broken childhood, not allowed
to scream loudly.

Will the sanity grieve on the charred
remains of a virgin, in the exiled home
of a brave truth? Then two little hands
will thump again in fog?


Satish Verma