Poetry

In a pool of blood
a face swims.
Under the boulders
there is a muffled scream.
Your private god was not there.

The space is littered with death-snacks.
Births a bloom of limbs,
stained shirts,
twisted wheels.
Dam of tears had a breach.

Stampede of legs –
abandoning the footwears.
Faces disappearing in smoke, confusion.
Road is deserted. A white pigeon lies dead
on his back, slicing the air.



Satish Verma