Poetry

Driving green fire
out of melodies.
It was not make-believe
not mannerism
but smell of autopsy.
A pseudo-elegy starts
at burial site.

Frugality of dust
first decides to go to god
and then die.
Race, religion, tribe
and their foot-soldiers
had become red

for lupines. It feels like
fire of hell. I am drunk
and I am burning.


Satish Verma