Sitting at the edge of a bubble
uncooled, trying to light an eternal flame of anonymity;
counter the wrangler, one skull in each hand,
of ancestors, you prepare for the crime of breaking
the umbilical cord.
Ostracized, you forge the ariel in arid zone,
burned, one patch on the eye, rubber thighs,
sniped at, lay still in a pool of blood,
in cauldron of terror, the brilliance of sun cracks
the marble statues.
Avarice of black boots mirrors the borewell;
washes out the color of smiles on blue lips.
Fireflies sink in darkness of punishment.
Satish Verma