Poetry

Sometimes horizon roams with moon
I pluck the stars
night drizzles from the dark clouds.

A shadow falls on the door
without struggle or rumor
I know he has come, my guest
the survivor of genocide.

He has come a long way
a message on his parched lips
he rubs hands.

Inferno he says. Holocaust he
murmurs. It is here again,
whole world is under siege.

He tells me, do something for the grass.
Ask your god to come back from domes.


Satish Verma