Satish Verma
A Spirited Dust
Was it a calculated
risk, when it was poetry,
falling like rains
on the parched lips
of yellowing pages.
Like the stones of a
grey mountain,
singing a hymn to blasts,
pick pocketing the sun?
I start reading the anatomy
of violence, ever, never
easy to understand.
Lots of red blotches
were spread on the tiny figures.
https://truml.com