When the street was becoming alive
man had become a charged bull,
goring the god to death.
My father wept, took the corpse home,
that was his child.
In the wild fire, a tall eucalyptus
had burned, turned black.
What did you think, this year,
spring would not come?
I remained very sad those days.
When the self was me, my image
I was dying without death;
through the veils, I would not see.
Was the pinnacle of your is, was becoming
empty? Tell me when we would learn,
the tiny truth of a primate? Or become
snakes eating our own children?
Satish Verma