Poetry

They had surrounded the tank;
collars on the legs.
You were tracking the revolution.

The process melts the crosses
in flowing blood.
Everybody was carrying a rose.

The bruises were spreading
on table.
King was drinking wine.

Unwritten law.
Death will sleep on street
with burning pyres.

Don’t throw the blankets
on red eyes.
Moon will stay whole night.


Satish Verma