Poetry

The chemistry of hate
changes in a thorn’s shade.
I start digging out the past
for a blind sun,
for a qualified rejection.


He was stranded in a death-row:
the civilians were killed.
Was a meditating Buddha with
a bomb, doing his routine job
of annihilation?


I am surprised of a god walking
in the graveyard to find his own
son lying asunder six feet deep
below the burden of kisses from
the vanishing mankind.


Satish Verma