Poetry

Who will deliver the blow
to hissing winds of red hot skin
when burning desert hits the green trees?

Life flows through fire in the shadows
of cloudy peaks. I resume living
in the bodies of other people,

I am not myself. And change must
come in the garb of numbers,
in the mode of nothingness,

like the horns locked in the middle
of the road, raising dust and hoofs
two bulls fighting in the ruins of widespread

culture of politics. Only slogans give
the clue to black power of flesh. A
dispute does not settle for the last rites.

Neither burial nor a funeral will take place.
Only bones will give rise to a flower bed
where ashes will read the history.


Satish Verma