Poetry

Wide awake,
the double helix splits.
Chasing the debris of refusal to die.
The new genes choose to mutate,
fencing the child who wanted to become
only brain. No flesh, no bones.

Will he survive on this date?
In the tortured ravines of hate and someone
will not hang him from the tall branches of yew?
The train was burning on the track,
bridge collapsed in the valley of gloom
and snow bound peaks were splattered red.

The young shadows are afraid to return
to play. The fibrosis will not allow the fingers
to move, to pick up the tulips, waiting for the
first time, to be harvested. The gardner is
dead under the dew. It was
cloudy again.


Satish Verma