Poetry

Crisp and tight, a parallel voice
of black stars talks to sky, protesting
the presence of ultimate outsider, when
everybody was a partner of collective
guilt in nightscape.

What was the center of fight in elite
members? The unhindered ego or claim
of bland crumbs of authority? The innocents
so many, on streets, surrounding a red
smudge, liberty, watching her personification, who
sleeps here!


Whom it burns? As the blood spurts
from the chest of a white stone.



* On the death of Neda Agha Soltan in Tehran on 20st June 09



Satish Verma