Poezja

A brush with pain of chest
starts recalibrating the fog of eyes.
World has come a long way

from a child's brain to prepare
an indigenous bomb
for a roaring ascent.

Where my son, you want to go
in trees of words? The temperatures
are rising to widen the scope

of violence. Every one was
claming to be a terrorist
for bringing the peace on earth.


let the party begin.


Satish Verma