Poetry

Half-buried in a mud pit,
a polluter bares all, body and soul.
Hands bound, ready to be stoned
to death.

A god was going to kill a god.
A dense judgement of planet green
of an unreliable sun
scribbling a code of conduct.

My god, I will go insane.
Save my woods I say. How can
be the adam was so naked running
in a race gene altered?

My arthritic fingers again lift
a mansion of gold leaves, dissolving
the sky.


Satish Verma