Poetry

Your impressionist,
rift, comes through
uncontrolled hands of fear. The snake

was shedding the skin.
Not walking,
flying like a rage
discharging the burns
in the river of blood.

I shudder,
in the cleft of a grain.
Hymns were howering over the book.

One by one
the leaves fall, to unravel the secrets of
unvoiced grief of earth.
A thin faith crumbles
unfinding the lost shroud
of a messiah.


Satish Verma