Poetry

Focused on burgundy palms
as the age blinks,
you start distressing on a unipolar
pinnacle, biting the nails.
The road absorbs the horizon.

Perched on a controversial tree
the birds break into small events
to reach the grass roots. A transparent question
always chases you about the consequence
of a war with troubled priests.

Do we need nitrous oxide to offset the gloom
of hovering religion? One enchanted
crowd spills in copycats to bring about
a revolution in ranks who were busy
in translating the epics of past.


Satish Verma