Weaving fine fibres of unripe
beliefs, from a fire base, a blue bird
scrambles, shading the stone valley.
There was no thrift for the cadavers.
The burnt relics were eating away the greens
of tearful eyes. Sun was slugging again.
A gag, a prison, a list; the trial was not
ending. A smell of burning leaves from a
guilt of smouldering garden, seeps through
the procession of thoughts, something which
cannot be questioned. Red blossoms of
clouds distract the blue flames of stars.
Satish Verma