BLOODSCAPE

Monologue of a monolith 
to live in a moment 
was futile. A young house was in disorder. 
Not listening, I would find the missing links. 
Grey ash to be smeared on forehead in horizontal 
lines for shifting the planets. 

The age creeps quietly, irremediably poor, 
unchanged in hysteria: after hysterectomy 
the womb lies in dirt. Ethnic violence will fill 
the carts of mutilated bodies, move to market, 
selling the rage. Be in today, or tomorrow, 
the blood brings honour. 

Do not complain of weather, these arthritic 
fingers, crooked toes, you will end on a cliff 
after the logic of war fails. A bald year 
moves, untrusting the noble men, I ascend 
a coin to find the circa of topless democracies 
destroying the pillars of feet.

Satish Verma