BROKEN PROMISE

Who will deliver the blow 
to hissing winds of red hot skin 
when burning desert hits the green trees? 

Life flows through fire in the shadows 
of cloudy peaks. I resume living 
in the bodies of other people, 

I am not myself. And change must 
come in the garb of numbers, 
in the mode of nothingness, 

like the horns locked in the middle 
of the road, raising dust and hoofs 
two bulls fighting in the ruins of widespread 

culture of politics. Only slogans give 
the clue to black power of flesh. A 
dispute does not settle for the last rites. 

Neither burial nor a funeral will take place. 
Only bones will give rise to a flower bed 
where ashes will read the history.

Satish Verma