Poetry

It was coming up, the politics
like dirty sex
in tall Parthenium grass.

The panther was hiding on a steppingstone
watching the hot, field hockey
played with skulls of peers.

Mauled, the peach skin was
entertaining sunlight in
the metaphoric village.

Prisoners of false ceilings,
we sing the anthem with
the crowd of wolves.


Satish Verma