Satish Verma, 23 lutego 2018
The spirit hovers.
I am not interested in a
séance. Let me come face to face
with the book to share clean
or unclean thoughts.
Not able to print my deep
angst. A clash of cultures. I
will call the unprinted scream. The
dismembered limbs begin
a dance of unfolding
the hate.
It was a jig.
Of scaffoldings for the
peacocks to shed their wings.
Everyone was falling for the green-gold
to be embossed on the dust
cover of life.
Satish Verma, 2 lutego 2018
You had the numbers.
The reverse trends begins-
with uneasy and dark ambush.
A fatal miscue. You
will get the message.
The fingerprints will stay on the wall.
Enduring the onslaughts.
Remaining sky-clad I
will wander in your arms.
Fighting with the curves,
on sleepy islands, will
you hail my outstanding landing?
The revelation has a price.
You will not open the envelope
till I am dead.
Satish Verma, 15 grudnia 2015
The flame will not die.
I pursue the path of smoke
the virtue of suffering
gives the pure light.
The book knows my inside truth
and tells no one. I weep for the swallows,
I could not feed.
I lay one white
stone for each death.
You will scatter my ashes,
in the abandoned land
where silence walks
and words lie like microcosm
of contemporary hunger.
Life was a cupful of tears.
The voices always spilled challenging
the fidelity of flowing water.
The living legend turns in grave,
I pray for peace
I promised myself to stand erect
when the quake comes.
I will save the flora
and the grass of dying earth.
I ask for one more life
to clear the debt & bleach my guilt.
Satish Verma, 25 listopada 2015
The identity moves ahead
of the shadow of truth
I search for the absolute
in vain. Can I remove the emptiness
and talk to myself?
The core feeling is same.
We flow in our own separateness.
I want to outlive my brethren
and eat my death alone.
Mindful I watch the kernel,
swaying tree is silent
I am here due to a fault in the genes.
Grief is not my skull house.
Each night I sleep with dry lips
dreaming a lake.
My pillow floats like a chopped moon.
Silence of anonymity
in the heart of a storm.
It is a curious apparition.
The vibrations of distant whispers
fill up the lungs,
ripping apart the veins.
My inside blood utters
a shrill sob.Where to go?
We cannot return back. Ending of time?
Satish Verma, 12 marca 2013
A randon creation
convulsed by grief.
Death of a pendant was not able
to recall the cleavage.
Kosher scream, the grandchildren
will not know the fakes of
reality show,
pure as honey, then the
scratching starts: look the tiger
was sitting on the branch.
Miracles will happen again
when the prince manipulates
the throne.
The dust melts in the local crowd.
Amid droughts there was a rivalary
to pick up the left over grains in field
between urchins and squirrels!
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 3 marca 2013
When the hate began
subordinating,
where were you?
O!
My clothes were on fire.
When you climbed the lips,
words were livid on tongue:
beyond the earth and sky,
water and air,
fire!
You stutter?
Speak not truth.
I don’t exist;
my flesh has become food
red meat,
dirty orchid!
I will forget me! !
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 2 marca 2013
Standing on a beam,
shrine:
holding a black dawn,
my phoenix roving on dark river.
The bell still clangs;
I hear the footsteps.
A weird thought
spreads out on peripherals,
makes holes,
the undone communiqué
of a war
between knuckles;
the blind eyes
lift the fallen globe
of light.
I move from tree to tree.
Who was left unburned?
The sky was overcast.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 17 lutego 2013
Insane
I turn around
an amputee
to live, for not living
fighting the inner war
speared,
lacerated,
like neanderthal in cave
my weapon
the serrated moon
cried in fluted dark
a glimpse of bare bones
the ash of a bleeding dawn
my shuttered courage
in urn
there was only one evening
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 30 października 2012
Fire in kidneys
was burning the basket.
Privacy of green thumbs
was intimately involved.
Let us share the candle light march
for the blossoms,
who would not stay
for old birds,
Read me again the epitaph
of the martyr, who wanted to remain
unsung, for the sorrow of
the flowing river.
Frenzy of a lone wolf was
inconsolable, when the dam spilled
the dead wood on the empty
bed of roses.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 2 kwietnia 2012
Before sinking to knees.
I will talk to flowers.
Day of arrival has come.
In death, wisdom of trees
will eject the seeds
of fire on hip-locked roots.
A miracle will raise the bones
from the rage of crowd.
The king has agreed to depart.
Darkness sings in the
valley of sun.
Tongues are free to weave the moon.
Till the words are ready
to walk on street of sorrow
to remove the blood soaked prints.
Satish Verma
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