Poetry

On the street between the impeachment
and castle a divine release was being
enacted engaging the durable peace in seething winter.
A somber black cloud of smoke was
slowly reclaiming the sun.

A disgraced militant was pounding his chest
for not killing priceless bees
who were initializing the flowers of Aden. The
death was laid out in a row before the child
was born. Dead prophets were watching from the eyes of dolls.



Satish Verma