Poetry

When logic and intuition
stood on edge of time,
sugar was dancing
on the salt lake.

I would not see the torn
book between retreat
and assault.
I was reining in the new moon.


In a night raid, five
peacocks were killed. I was
trying to unseize the cross purpose,
why the compensation was rejected
at burial site.


The burden of guilt
was carried by the flint now.
You take a final plunge
and are lost in the faces
of sad children.


Satish Verma