Poetry

A very disconnecting creek where bodies
were found, presents a pictorial death in night,
which must be challenged, I say. Then I think without
thoughts; summer was ending and a pandemic
was at the door. The art of debating the image
sears the mind. Must act, think later: the gold

coins have been thrown in the market, the
frozen lens behind the slit eyes watch the cargo
unloading: the explosions come in spate. What
was it - greed or fear? We are running blindly,
the brides, the boys, the men. Of modern governance
a metaphysical meditation.

The strings pulled behind the curtain, game
starts. Award is gifted. The name dies.


Satish Verma