Poetry

For the bird,
I knocked the cage to set it free.
My tryst,
with a nightmare begins.
It was me, dismembered
in sour death
where sorrow meets the sorrow.
Now rising, now falling, the delicate frame
on unseen wings
beneath the stars, above the moon.

The killing circle
of trampling wishes takes you nowhere. In cubicles
you are lost, recycled. The theme of projecting yourself
looks straight in your face. What next?
The time infects you mercilessly. Vaguely
you become aware of imminent chaos.

The hollow drums will beat endlessly.


Satish Verma