NAÏVE INNOCENCE

O pink horse, O timeless sun, 
run on my body, run. Black magic 
had pierced the needles into my heart. 

Lying on nails to wrest a superearth 
from amnesty, I start bandaging the bruised 
ethos of my native conscience – 

on the spike of a violence, refusing 
to give up my home to fire, tending 
the voiceless flora of a virgin rock. 

The questions stand up, against 
the black walls of silence. The blue birds 
are going to fly in white desert. 



Satish Verma