THE BRIGHTENED FIRE

Tonight sleep was not coming to me. 
Tears had washed the splinters out of the bruised eyes. 
It was becoming extremely hard to pulversize 
the legacy, the tendrils of violence. 
Wrapped in white shrouds the bodies were laid out 
on the grass. The pearly sunlight was ready 
to give anything for a name. 

The pitted legs, the shattered bones, 
black moles of the final darkness. Descending 
on the battle ground, parched throats 
licking up the dew from the mute bodies of ancestors. 
I would eat death, shapeless, as blunt 
questions, as medallions. Millions of years will be ready 
to make out the fossils of time machines. 

Are not the pinnacles of snow shining on the 
mountains of silent hate? You keep the windows 
open, so that the blasts does not shatter the glass. 
When this calamity will end? The new born 
babies are thrown out on heaps of garbage, bloody 
rags of unhinged bloughs. A hunch-backed 
god was tottering on the broken planks.

Satish Verma