Poetry

A preacher was shedding
dirty tears
for burning hills.

Pinned up on tongue
was a slogan.
Death for all sunflowers.

Draped in blood
who was trespassing
the sickle moon?

I cannot raise the mist
where you stand naked
in sunlight.

Somebody has killed
the pathological god.
I am starting a new kitchen.

Satish Verma