Satish Verma, 11 czerwca 2021
Autumn moon―
in full grace. I have
come out to say hello.
*
Everything was in
order. A stunned silence.
The cuckoo gives a long call.
*
Long ago, such
was the night. I
wrote my first poem.
*
My innocence,
intact― I still feel
my stupidity.
Satish Verma, 10 czerwca 2021
Like half-brother
moon was following me.
Tonight the dethroning commences
on the murderous hills
of faith.
You grab a snowcloud
to refuse what you would be.
The animal that lives
in you has become silvery haired.
There was a terror of being isolated.
Earth was dying in me.
A bloodied machete―
travels across the lands,
riding on the tears, screams
and disembodied peans.
Lifting a sacred book
the hand trembles involuntarily.
Is it the homicide of bright sun?
Et tu, O man?
Satish Verma, 8 czerwca 2021
It was very edifying.
When you shut the mouth of
the oppressed―
the mass grave speaks.
The widow was still mourning,
after the causality of my belief,
my psyche, my rights.
You don't make me, then
how can you break? What
was the height of fall,
will you let me know?
The volatile words are now
losing their import. No
real, only cosmetic display.
Let the celebration of
bold death begin.
Satish Verma, 6 czerwca 2021
Brutal. Another lover
too. Four-letter words kill.
A self deception begins.
You shut up in yourself.
From meaningless trivia you
want to extract peace.
The leather was becoming feminist.
You can eat your partner
if conflict increases.
Will you like to read Camus
again? Especially- The Myth of Sisyphus?
The humming birds are
disappearing. No trumpet shaped flowers.
Half-naked in beachdress―
a truth was swept away.
Satish Verma, 5 czerwca 2021
I don't want any applause.
Think. think on
what I have to say.
The morgue is full. Still
the bodies were arriving, of
all the dead innocents.
The son, daughter, mother and
father and grands.
What rituals you want to do―
to honour the departed, or
praise the killers?
The rigged notes on paper speak of mendacity.
Between the primates, man
was becoming the beast.
The stone, sculptor and ghost are one.
Satish Verma, 4 czerwca 2021
The dusk panics.
Molten ash stings, bearing
you down. Your enemy had penetrated
very deep.
Your pride shrinks.
Infinite pains from moonlit streets
climb up the palm trees
to count the dead.
You can not arbitrate in disputes
of wind and flags.
The night rolls down on the
battered past. Your face becomes
a broken clock.
Color-blind, you will never―
know the green recital
of the spokesman.
Satish Verma, 3 czerwca 2021
This was not physical.
Which part of your psyche,
I would touch?
Sometimes you swing
without a rope. A chasm
appears, then vanishes.
Blindfolded you open
a death door to see the fall.
The deep pain bifurcates.
The distance was increasing
between clouds. A crack
of light burns the dark. Animals
awake.
You remember a yawn
of cosmos. Someone becomes a fever,
high as sun, in earthen heart.
Satish Verma, 2 czerwca 2021
A wreath of skulls
you want to hang on the wall.
I don't want to
lose the skin.
The land was bleeding.
Mars mission. A very
lonely flight, pulls me down.
Do you have a
pearl knife?
Small talisman, you used to wear
when you were a child
to ward off the evil spirits.
A buttonless chest. The map
you drew on the torso was tense.
The woods were nowhere. Only
the dry sands.
I wanted to make a slit in the stone,
to release the holy water,
but it was only tears―
Satish Verma, 1 czerwca 2021
You hide behind the words.
It was my priviledge
to start the fire.
Looking at the bare moon
in black sky,
you open the blue veins―
to explore the anatomy of
pain. Sometimes you want
to suffer in the hands of impossible.
Life wants its share of death,
when you were playing autumn,
frightening the lantern.
A nameless breeze offers
the whiff of a musk deer,
that lost the tree for scent-marking.
Satish Verma, 31 maja 2021
I should not have been
there, where I am now.
The destiny was unscrupulously quiet.
Time goes in suspension
when I don't see you in me.
Flaunting the assets
of dwarf generation, you
kill the galaxy of stars brazenly.
Paraplegia. You break
the eggs in air to touch the placentae.
Twirled. I ask
the question, when your lips
will drown in stoned Buddha?
Out of reach, the honeybees
fly towards the virgin trees.
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