THE RETREAT

The heritage. Storm of violence 
in our chromosomes: perverts the senses. 
Spooky fear of burnt houses, broken limbs, 
utterly committing as witness of silent 
unbuilding, as the future defies the 
stunt of withdrawl. 

Not for tomorrow, the mother weeps 
for the exiled trespassers on dead sea. 
Drowned corridor of sinking ship. The explosions, 
feathers destroying the direction of winds. 

Life picks up the rags of pride, of ‘me’. 
Terror waits on the lips of sorrow 
like an obsessive maniac, ready to jump. 

Some candle, bring me some light.

Satish Verma