Poetry

That vertical sink
loaded with cargo
fraught,
with pools of blackened blood
burned me.


I never arrived
at a moot prologue
for the journey of dead.

The sun turned away
in a doubt
under a smoked trance of helplessness.


Perhaps it was true of a murder

in serene weather
when the astrologia was opposite.

The charred landscape
dithered about the lilies.
Will they come back?



Satish Verma