DROOPING

For a desolatory trident 
I was feeding my anger. 
I could not do it, sell 
myself for punitive lenses of my calculus. 

A nymphalid arsenal. 
The war was still going on 
to strike in deep poctets, demolishing 
nascent hope. Future will 

ponder at the mascots. The grief 
of rags and riches will continue 
listening to eternal conflicts. 
The wounds will develop whiskers. 

Not for the opulent pain in the body: 
we were crying for the glory of the man 
which was disappearing fast, 
under the whirling snow of broken stars.

Satish Verma