Poetry

It erupts and then sublimates
in thirst of response
from the faraway wholeness of truth.

Will not be the same
again this life in motion
of reverse malignity.

Lifting the passage from
script to justify the
suicidal chair of kingdom.

Every morning I wake, the
town weeps for the dead,
killed by street.

The grieving mother tolls
the bell, for each fallen horse.
Earth, receive your sons in shame.

Satish Verma