Poetry

A severed hand on my shoulder
wrenches it off.
You sit on a toadstool
to measure the depth of grass.

A raven scans the earth:
nothing was left to eat.
The hungry urchins had
already punctured the garbage can.

A live show of committing suicide
will take place tonight.
To become silent in roaring noises
was the outcome of a dive.

A terrorist in pilgrim’s pouch walks past
a bomb. The wires reach in the schism
of a faith. Again you cry in your skin
for sake of a forgotten god.


Satish Verma