Poetry

And there was history
to map the terror. A neoplasm
was arising suddenly in the aching skull.
Chorus of wailing: the burning will not go.

Clouds of dense smoke were mindless.
All the centuries were smouldering
in the hearts of waiting children
while the bombs were swaying from the tree tops.

The fat men and women were melting down
to define the master and slave in the
dark chambers of commerce. The ravaged
body of truth anoints itself with blood.



Satish Verma