Poetry

A self-protecting game was going on.
After the paternity test
there was slow burning
inside the moon.
Earth heaved a big sigh.
Blackwater was making a muddy sound.

Embroidery was fading
aftermoon.
I open the window to uncover
the chill. A young lass has jumped over
from a flyover to meet a concrete end.

The liberated soul of nation
indulges in cocktails of free erotica.
In beginning there was a sacred river;
now in bed, dry bones
were found soaked in release.


Satish Verma