Poezja

Slashing the surged monarchy
of celibates
stoking the fire of wounds,

the turret locks on to a target
taking off the gloves.
The mountain was rising.

A sheet of the floating ice
disturbs the ecology
of heart. I place my candle in storm.

The missils had failed.
Only the words were flying from
bare lips for entreaties.

Oversexed like a shoe-flower
O, mad enemy
I am pouring out the red sea.

Satish Verma