Poetry

That grave alchemy
of cold fusion,
of turning mercury into gold,
makes me undone
in a fit of anger.
Punished before the crime committed,
of saying no for yes,
of disobedience in the face of a command,
I am becoming a beggar again.

The land of gold dust
evokes a disquieting sadness.
Smell of hunger and blood, takes
me to concrete nothings,
collects the emptiness from the wrinkled eyes.
The lake-salt, dry loaves and onions for a quiet dinner.

Fear in absence,
starts a fear of future,
the sound of unblinking darkness whispering.


Satish Verma