FALLING

Something impossible would happen. 
Truth was too much to operate, 
life was easy with fakes. 

Neither mortal pain, nor needles 
would mend the wounds. The chasm 
was deepening. And I stitch the orange lights 
with the kisses of green tears. 

For the punishment of disjointed commitments, 
I dream of the killings 
standing on the corpse of faith. The 
obscene slogans raise the dust, 

of hate crimes. The color of the race 
was spreading, on bellies, on stones. 
The night will bring spiralling comets 
in the sky, burning and emptying 
the pure.


Satish Verma