Poetry

What were the lies in a truth
of the buried day?
Fabulous cries? Tears?

It was a tremble down
in the standing crop of men
ready to be genetically modified.

Each walk in the city
exhausts you to an innocent
tale of manipulated fiction.

Insects, yes insects
were climbing on the moon
like saints with flowing beards

to drink the blackness
of sky. There had been a method
in their madness, in death and whiteness.


Satish Verma