FROM THE CHERRY BLOSSOMS

Not asking, was most difficult, from 
the magma, to send a hot spring. It was 
a classical translation of the pain in winter 
of human spell, in a temple festival. 

The space widens between us, between 
our thighs and absences, while studing 
the red roof of the landscape, where blood 
had dripped from the cherry blossoms. 

I say to mother earth, where the border 
begins between your breasts and foeticide. 
Warriors were becoming monks or priests 
were learning the art to kill. 

This road is not going anywhere. 
The interval between matter and time 
links to movement of grief. The ahead 
is tomorrow under siege. Sun is refusing 
to melt the snow on mountains.

Satish Verma