Poetry

For a desolatory trident
I was feeding my anger.
I could not do it, sell
myself for punitive lenses of my calculus.

A nymphalid arsenal.
The war was still going on
to strike in deep poctets, demolishing
nascent hope. Future will

ponder at the mascots. The grief
of rags and riches will continue
listening to eternal conflicts.
The wounds will develop whiskers.

Not for the opulent pain in the body:
we were crying for the glory of the man
which was disappearing fast,
under the whirling snow of broken stars.


Satish Verma