A DAY OF COUNTING

You gave it 
when you were poor. 
Today I went to unwrap the gift. 
The soul! Ripping out from the body 
to deconstruct my vernacular pain. 

Pulling off the toenails to extract a promise. 
Feet first; the birth of a child to die sooner in the crib. 
My brother, tell me, do you understand 
my imperishable grief. 

For a future’s peace 
sing my poem, sing ascendancy. 
For laughing skulls in a killing field, 
ideation will become a routine talk. 

Give me a hand, brother, 
am I insane? 
Becoming teeth of wisdom was a crime?

Satish Verma