Satish Verma
Disoriented
I was worried.
A deviant had lost the shape,
and had thrown a word at your face.
The black name was crawling
on the white paper. It was not
a rape, but the abduction―
of a mystic.
The snake time. Politics.
The crowd was celebrating the death.
What would you say, death
had many names?
I want to sleep with you tonight,
O moon. The slave
had become the master.
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