Poetry

A gunny sack was full of bleached skulls.
What now? Do I attend the auction
of mortal wounds in hidden valley of dust?
The arsenal of seductive weapons was a snub
to your culture when the fall of extremes
was overlapping the sunset of empire.

I am going to take my walk in the hell of fire
raging in petunias. The emotions are becoming
volatile after the rape of a child. Is there any
medicine for rape? Nowhere on earth, the violence
stops moving shirtless. The dead century hangs
from the eyelashes, traces the dried up tears.

Some people think, bricks are weightier than
truth. They burn the buses under a weeping
willow. A high caste god will not glaze beyond
the frozen lake of crutches. Belongings on a
striped road vanish in books. A hate gift
drops on tulips.


Satish Verma