satishverma

SEASON’S CHANGE

When the debate between 
temple versus state was heating up, 
death was passing through a green field. 

A nervous embrace 
of solatium was unstable. 
A heap of flip-flops could not 

hold steady, little 
poems fluttering in the heart. 
Was it the will of God? 

The stampede was the anathema 
of hunger, the curse of a 
whore was working. 

Instead of food and alms, 
a mass burial makes 
me insane. 

Was it possible that spring 
was far behind? When brassica 
blooms, will you forget? Is it not true?

Satish Verma