Poetry

The lake was drying up
touching raw nerves.
Epicenter of violence was standing
on gun powder-

nursing charity groups
which were spewing hot lava.
This war was different, wearing masks
played by gloved hands.

The face in the crowd
was twisting the knobs of nuclear doors.
A tender haze over the winter
of relationship. The stones were smiling.

The dance of the road, I am the lone
survivor of genocide to witness
the romance of death, the nameless
liberation.

Can you negate this matrix? This fall
of becoming? I smear the ashes
on forehead of history and squander
my poems.


Satish Verma