Poetry

For a messenger of lies
I lay down the script.
A kick starts the game.

I am the only visitor to the
gallery. Kamasutra suicide displayed
was a way of expression

of a revolt against honour
killing of your own daughters
whose bodies were found in the canal.

The tall sacred walls of home
made kilns, where you empty your sixpence
traditions on the name of native justice.

A sightless vista opens before the
inward eye. I take hold of a brush
and wipe out the faces.


Satish Verma