Poetry

Monologue of a monolith
to live in a moment
was futile. A young house was in disorder.
Not listening, I would find the missing links.
Grey ash to be smeared on forehead in horizontal
lines for shifting the planets.

The age creeps quietly, irremediably poor,
unchanged in hysteria: after hysterectomy
the womb lies in dirt. Ethnic violence will fill
the carts of mutilated bodies, move to market,
selling the rage. Be in today, or tomorrow,
the blood brings honour.

Do not complain of weather, these arthritic
fingers, crooked toes, you will end on a cliff
after the logic of war fails. A bald year
moves, untrusting the noble men, I ascend
a coin to find the circa of topless democracies
destroying the pillars of feet.


Satish Verma