Satish Verma
Watching Our Warts
Sloping down in gold pursuit
of a bruised city,
sons of nameless fathers
were changing the generic mandate.
I am becoming fluvial
going on a muted odyssey
to find unmarked graves.
Slaughtering
your own lines, in praise of end-
which came very soon;
before the windows altered the moon.
Genes spilled on the road
recalling the wounded
son whose lexicon took him
to war with the meanings.
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