Poetry

If you walk straight under the
shadow of moon, to the salt lake
death will blow a long whistle.
Everything was ruined in war of words.

There was no peace in the heart,
even after meditation, the mind
drove for the flesh, caressing neither
blameless womb nor Oedipus.

The dead forefathers goad the hypocrisy
till the blood spurts out from
the black navel of centuries
and the forgiveness stands naked.


Satish Verma