Poezja

A tribal fear
was lurking,
behind a surge of emotion.
The sun was looking black.

A sexual abuse
of a quaint flower
aborts the fruit.
This year we will go hungry.

A nascent seed
stripped on road-
cries for water.
We hear without listening.

Death by a grave
was a domestic claim.
But you were found dead in a bunker.

Life vows to stand alone
on the burning deck-
of a turbulent ship.
The ocean will find a bloody hand one day.



Satish Verma