Looked downward
the granite face,
to see imprinted kupfernickeled
god, lying in dust.
From where to where
we have come sleepwalking?
In freezing winds, like brown angels
with swollen lids.
White moon-poised to commit suicide?
Blindfolded heavy as lead
in the trade of spared lies?
Back pain will carry us not very far.
Green stems have yellow leaves now.
We start blaming ourselves
to keep the winter away,
in torn shirts.
Satish Verma