Poetry

Beyond the sex
he was sleepwalking in shame
hiding his faith ingloriously.

A poacher in harem
of politics, where you stack the hidden
virility for killing the money.

A single mate must die
making love on screen in the vicinity
of god’s house.

The monstrous lie will
press the knife to the lips
for shedding the blood of a monk in a brothel.

If we must forget
the accidental shot,
the spring will never come to olive grove.


Satish Verma