APPLE PICKING

Immenseness of the contrast – 
from blue eyes to red apples, 
(we must stop apple picking!) 
from smashed leg to a stone wall – 
squanders the soft toys of time. 

A peach colored queen lies in state 
from centuries 
to be buried in a golden casket. 
Poverty of words, 
hunts for the meaning, rhyme and consonance. 

I drink darkness from the white lips. 
Green eyes will find, 
a sun at last. 
The urn is broken. 

The scented hairs cover my face – 
tendrils of a brute fate. 
A mutilated mirror will reflect the distorted history 
of man, through the ages of dust 
and wounds. The earth was riveting the god.

Satish Verma