LOAVES

When the street was becoming alive 
man had become a charged bull, 
goring the god to death. 
My father wept, took the corpse home, 
that was his child. 

In the wild fire, a tall eucalyptus 
had burned, turned black. 
What did you think, this year, 
spring would not come? 

I remained very sad those days. 
When the self was me, my image 
I was dying without death; 
through the veils, I would not see. 

Was the pinnacle of your is, was becoming 
empty? Tell me when we would learn, 
the tiny truth of a primate? Or become 
snakes eating our own children?

Satish Verma