Poetry

If erupts again –
the eternal hate of caucuses.
A pipe bomb detonates in a gulley.

Death glides as a superman
like a mutiny in the bowl.

Night stumbles against the kissing moon
on the shore of waning hope.

I will not mourn for my color
I am still nursing a grief.

Walking alone in the shadow of walls
to unhear the screams of dawn.


Satish Verma