Poetry

No more venom for me. My throat is full
and sore is spurting.
King cobra, take rest. You must be tired
after going for so many bouts.
Sleep well. I have to wake till eternity.
The time is running out and I am ready
for judgement.
A miracle has happened in the hungry eyes.
God helped them to hang with folded hands.
Nobody cried for dead.
Spates of suicides told it verbatim..
Names of victims were engraved
on painted boards.
Souls were covered with innocent songs.

A brutal wind blows. Everything
looks normal and serene.
Dirty lanes are again full of trembling
legs in wait for the handouts.


Satish Verma