Poetry

let me start a * bid for the right
to light the pyre of the bond;
who would not believe, the benign bony fingers
had written off the desires,

from lips to hips
may you go to find the sludge at the
banks of fury at sunrise, I am making
some adjustments with violence in mind,

the human race was acting clumsier
by skirting the tools of death and laughter,
it had become a rage with tiny kids
who were playing with bombs of hate,

missed abortion of faith, a baked infertile
baby opens the darkness with white teeth

* A community ritual to perform the last rites of a jain monk.


Satish Verma