Poezja

The road breaks here.
Give me something to heal the fractured earth.
Angels are too much for me, the
gash turns inward ripping apart
eternal vigil.

They head into the burning books
and then explode themselves
on wet sands, generating grids, blithely lethal.
Wired blind, the sun weeps.
A green catastrophe tears a huge iceburg.

Post-coitol emptiness. The sweet nothing
stops. He becomes everything, the world
was not. The clouds bleach, moon
strips to bone. The artist goes into
exile to find a fiction.


Satish Verma