Poetry

Sound of footfalls was drawing near;
the tiger has been set free.
In the wild landscape you need

some feverfew. Death was constantly
stalking to trade off the dolls in
lieu of sameness of the stones.

The shifting sand drips in the eyes.
Face to face we come near the blind
ruins of today, denying the questions.

Who was responsible for the dark
skulls in the ragbag and explosions
near the granite temples?

Your face was not on the poster, but
you write the lessons to interrogate
the past. The gods are not visible.


Satish Verma