Poetry

In mangled bodies
and severed limbs,
the blood gives up its claim.

A twisted window blocks the landscape
of silvered faces.
No body talks with moon.

Night burns the fat
floats on the dead mouthings.
Death has the foulest taste.

Darkness looms overnight,
very false under the lamp,
eyelids are closing.

Dirty maps unfold the mystery
of religion. The longest book
has the restless words.


Satish Verma