Poetry

In the valley of blasts
a row of jacarandas
tall, sweet smelling,

shed blue petals endlessly.
A colossus spread
on wounds of earth.

A small girl with pellets
in her belly
was searching her wounded mother.

Essense of sorrow
helps to find myself,
in defense of freedom.

In the city of death
an unbeliever like me
wants to find peace with God.

Satish Verma