Poetry

A translator hits the stop
a parable tells the million lies.

The spill was overflowing the walking fire,
dissenters were rising from seabed.

Looking inward I open a pathway
leading to home faraway.

Who will keep it contained, the smouldering
anger? The colossus was bleeding inside.

Cut moon, as the death walks between stars
into forgetful sky. Overnight it was red.

The necklace crosses a lake becoming
a swan’s neck in tearing chains.

Satish Verma