Poetry

O pink horse, O timeless sun,
run on my body, run. Black magic
had pierced the needles into my heart.

Lying on nails to wrest a superearth
from amnesty, I start bandaging the bruised
ethos of my native conscience

on the spike of a violence, refusing
to give up my home to fire, tending
the voiceless flora of a virgin rock.

The questions stand up, against
the black walls of silence. The blue birds
are going to fly in white desert.



Satish Verma