What is the thing of poverty,
of frozen pain,
fury under the snow,
between fire and rain?
You come on the surface
to breathe, douse with petrol
and show off a flame. A slum of emotions
burns with rage.
The masses in the garden
play with a fountain. The screams
bloom into a scam. A dead blue peace,
except the tears obscene.
I am in fear. The pillow was used
to choke the enemy.The ripples were
spreading. Wheels were broken. A child
in a womb cries.
Satish Verma