Poetry

It was an absent answer. Terror
was one abyss in unhindered
waking of eternity in being. The passions rise
between downpour of black rings on the terraces,
was nonstop a parade of excuses and pretentions, no
body was taking the responsibility of the war lost, and
we nod in unison. Hunger drives the wedge. This
is a city of moonless sky where the headcount
never stops.

Warriors sit down under the volts opening red
eyes, the trade gets a bad name, rubbers
win the coin. Yellow metal gleams around arms,

a wound becomes a talisman, you start collecting
the awards from severed hands.



*On watching a massive blaze of gas depot at Jaipur (India) unebbed for 3 days.


Satish Verma