Poetry

I forgot, was it me
in a body pile draped in dust,
still hot, bruised, burnt, a mad megalomaniac
starting a civil war, creating suicide bombers,
young virgins inhaling death?

This journey under the guns, displacing
hapless thousands, will reach destination
on thick, blood stained red, dirt road of life? Step by step
the dynasty breaks and violence, a malignant
spread overtakes the bones

of avatars; the round bloodshot eyes
cross the barriers of silence and step out
from the skin: they were bombing
his bunker.


*On the death of Vellupillai Prabhakaran, LTTE Leader


Satish Verma