Poetry

Sitting on the heap of mortals,
an angel failed. The world
was not going to change. The kill
had inspired only a naked aggression.

Not blindfolded he took the bullet
in heart to become a holy martyr.
The pretention caused no ripples.
River flowed without blood.

A rotten tooth rolls out.
Another smile spreads. Many headed
cobra strikes again. The ooze tosses out
from the broken skin. I pray for the death.

The veil lifts. The bone of ruined
Conscience juts out. A terrible reminder of crusade seeps in.
What do we want from the gods of masses,
while the time does not want to look back?


Satish Verma