MOURNING THE DELUGE

Something was not polite in signs. 
The smell of incarcerated bed of gods 
was floating down. 

A subdued shadow of black moon 
was climbing on the window. And each 
house had offered a son, to rage 

a war of retribution. Malice towards 
one and everybody, they were ready to cut the 
hands who were holding the book. 

Out of the ore comes out the gold, when 
you use mercury. Vacant eyes have the 
veils of tears. Dampness was melting the bones. 

The mud on the face, a gift of birthday.

Satish Verma