Poetry

Rain of victims.
Crossing a parched field
a summer moon was laughing
like a naked lie.
I intend to lie in state,
no grass was going to cry.

A red spot was growing
on your chest.
Were you shot in heart?
Creeping, they want to put the sandal paste
on the dome.
I walk waist-high between
the kneeling heads.

Who were the inmates of the
black house,
which was so sexy?
I do not mean anything, over the head
a kite was flying.


Satish Verma