Poezja

The heritage. Storm of violence
in our chromosomes: perverts the senses.
Spooky fear of burnt houses, broken limbs,
utterly committing as witness of silent
unbuilding, as the future defies the
stunt of withdrawl.

Not for tomorrow, the mother weeps
for the exiled trespassers on dead sea.
Drowned corridor of sinking ship. The explosions,
feathers destroying the direction of winds.

Life picks up the rags of pride, of 'me'.
Terror waits on the lips of sorrow
like an obsessive maniac, ready to jump.

Some candle, bring me some light.


Satish Verma