ANNUAL RITUAL

That awkward moment 
when you stammer, 
truth spurts out: 
how not to offer a straight reply. 

Your green eyes 
tell me the pain 
of last century. 
Of armistice, of amputated legs 
and then you don’t know what to do with your existence. 

Darkened trees spit the starlight. 
I will wait for the maddening crowd 
to take the dip in the holy lake, 
to wash out their sins 
under the full moon.

Satish Verma