Poetry

The green hills are drinking
the clouds,
keep pouring out
the scented breath.

In capsuled hour the wind was its own rival.
A slant on confessional suicide:
the charm obliterates the solitude.

A gray shower of thoughts outside the window,
I forget, I remember in coyness
my sparks are humming.

The plundered land
by advancing columns of hunger
tosses around the dead lips of tropical
hues.

The fear demands learning,
finding the uninvited death
in the manipulated existence.


Satish Verma