Poetry

even vultures will not devour the proffered
war time victims, ruined was the impression
of untitled sacrifice, a wild anemone

slips into the river of blood, I tend to forget
the faces of embers –

arson by apostles of peace, it has become a commodity,

oppression releases a promise for optic illusion
through large-prints

a near miss when the truth chokes to death,
suicidal full of nerves-

the hills tremble in anticipation, lambs
were dropping dead on a green patch

such obligation


Satish Verma