LOVE IN ORIGINAL

After a soot rain 
the grey fear moved centripetally, seeking centrum; 
thoughts, saffron colored, in the words 
went mute. 

You were still searching the head, 
of a nameless torso, in a heap of your failures. 
The river had run dry. 

Why were you trying to revise the script 
of anthem after the man made inferno? 
A mushroom cloud was heading this way. 

Ah, the prickly lips still eject the same 
agenda for dualism, 
now the yellow metal was nickel-plated. 

Outside the stoic redemption falls the reality. 
Man had become a crypt on a grave 
of less guilty. 


Satish Verma