Poetry

I was deeply annoyed.
One by one they were falling,
walking in quagmire.

For duplicating rights?
Dead pelicans, pouch empty.
Somebody was picking ants from the air.

Give me some cold pack,
my head is throbbing hot,
I am burning.

Nine year old innocent
raped by a septuagenarian.
A twin pregnancy. I will go insane.

They were still talking about
the golden beach, and perfected will.
Too late to count the gods.

The pale body was untying the mask.
The suffering borrows from the death
and embryo becomes a temple.


Satish Verma