THE PREDICAMENT

Joined by the funeral, we sit down, 
under the blue sky, fire watching, sequentialling 
the processions. Ultimately one by one they come, 
to dust, hands turned down. After close of the rainbow 
there is an explosion and a transition 
censored by stone age. They flee from the shrapnels 
to swathe in bioluminence of death. The penury 
makes a fanciest atrocity. 

A pockmarked moon stands there to listen 
the scandalized whispers of crulest legends 
in century’s hopelessness, guilt’s bleeding. 
You never chained the voice of booms. A god 
mourns in fading light. 


SATISH VERMA

Satish Verma