Poetry

All I wanted was to arrive from the absence
of me, through the sluice of scars; life was
never the same again. Some inner birth took place;
awakening of sorrow for the attempts to take on adversary.

Pure disquiet, I shed myself, fly in grains.
Truth scares, stalks on the hot dusty road;
blinds the pinnacle, gives a call, needles in
eyes, a cult blooms in the rubble of fallen roofs.

The self betrays, does not reach the door,
within grief the sky blames the senses of space,
the flying bird sprays blue sparks of silence,
a cadaver collects the fire of neglect.

A spoken body loses the arithmatic of
stubborn cleft in the faith, pebbles on the beach,
each one for a fallen man, kissing a snake.
The memorial has golden letters on black kill.


Satish Verma