Poetry

They slaughtered the icon in captivity
as an act of mercy.
To know the secret of madness
why people were falling on knees?

Outside a small narrative will give
creased excuses. The spilled blood
always instigates to drink from the fountain head
of sweet revenge.

A promise has to be fulfilled.
Death has seen the door,
it will come again.

On this day the maniacs, bipolars and schizophreniacs
will celebrate the independence day
and show their trophies of dried skulls.

Now the time has come.
Everybody wants to commit suicide
to become a saint.


Satish Verma