FEVER RISING

What is the thing of poverty, 
of frozen pain, 
fury under the snow, 
between fire and rain? 

You come on the surface 
to breathe, douse with petrol 
and show off a flame. A slum of emotions 
burns with rage. 

The masses in the garden 
play with a fountain. The screams 
bloom into a scam. A dead blue peace, 
except the tears obscene. 

I am in fear. The pillow was used 
to choke the enemy.The ripples were 
spreading. Wheels were broken. A child 
in a womb cries.

Satish Verma