Poetry

Long night will start the pincer movement;
pyrexia is rising.
Something like an extraterrestrial hand
digs deep in the mind to open the tomb
to unravel the tragedy of nuts and bolts
which could not fix
the mutation of the hour of death.

Dark blinking lashes of soul
measures the cliffs of silence
and then pours the hot red
vermilion in parted wisdom of sky.

The clang of bones again penetrates
the liver. The green flaming jelly of
innocent bellies.
The hyacinth is choking the village pond
hiding the corpses of precious flowers
with green blood.

One day foundation of skeletons will build a
temple of hope.


Satish Verma