Poetry

Let it be, a dawn prayer,
dripping with fantasy
intercepting the strip-search of soul
tempting a mad psyche.

The sleeping volcano was going to celebrate,
put the sign on.
Perfectly shineless hands will raise
the banner to donate kidneys, eyes and heart

to the broken star, who on the name of book
was sending the empty cadaver on ivory car,
a saviour from carnage, to mimic
a divine touch.

Why are they playing with flames of summer?
Poor minutes were sinned, the centuries
will suffer now. On the green leaves
a nightingale lies bleeding!



Satish Verma