Gladioli stand in a tantric daze
under siege of prism. The colors fall dangling,
unsettling silent memories.
I thought I was nervous
while playing a smell game of wild guns,
when tanks were rolling out on streets.
A final farewell before exiting
the garden, in my ceremony of death.
A child lies down waiting for the boots.
The wheat grass of beggers,
never to mourn a falling cloud
undesires a dropp of blood on tongue spilling on skin.
A terrified leaf disturbs a mirror,
civilized image of a private crystal, beyond
the virulence of hiding legs.
Satish Verma