THE NEXT WALL

the whispering voices 
laid down the arms on the skull of the leader, 
father of pain, then asked the guns to fire 
a last volley towards home 

targeting the prudence of fingernails 
who crossed the gap 
seventy thousand years ago, 
the progenitors with exposed genitalia: 

the dead man’s mouth was full of 
secrets, my god, they were frozen pistons 
of sugar, face bloated of pride, 
absolutely white, 

the skin had been very kind 
a pink shade of poetry, you deliver 
a rose for unnamed soldier 
I break the windows and mirrors

Satish Verma