Poetry

Ceramic memories
and terracotta pain;
the injured crypt ultimately got opened.
At urn burial, the name was absent. A pristine
ritual for a nameless martyr.
The sword within him was not used
and pubescent bomb went unexploded.

You leave a beautiful war
glorified by defusing a land mine
and roadside bomb was dismantled.
Looking for a blue flame you entered the stone
house of death, and left the hurt gift.
The moon will smile again
when you come back as a bright star.

The dead potsherd comes alive
when I dig for your name.


Satish Verma