TORCHES

It was a big trauma. 
Granary went overboard, 
my boat was torpedoed. 

No romance was left now. 
At the burial of the moon 
aliens were arriving. 

You do not want to call it a genocide. 
The massacre of millions, of children 
and women. The civil war was inside you, 

not in the homes of innocents. A god 
falls on the rail-tracks to commit 
suicide. His severed limbs I would not see. 

I want to close the window, 
as the white dove was carrying 
dead leaves for a mass grave.

Satish Verma