Poezja

Again the panic grips.
Clones from the frozen cells of rot-scented
rafflesia growing in abundance.
Huge pitchers are swarming the landscape.

You walk into the trap.
The lid falls, blocks the way out
and sharp spikes pierce through you,
so suddenly that you cannot even cry.

The white darkness of the gray ash
is covering the limbs of history.
I am the past, I am the future.
Where do I enter the present?

At threshold they lift their arms.
Neither in-nor-out.
Begging to walls to close in
and let the roofs fall down.


Satish Verma