THE BUDDHA WAS GOING TO WEEP

For the fusion of minds 
let the long vigil of night begin 
for a cultural shock. 

Prayer wheels were whirring 
furtively. 
The Buddha was going to weep. 

Imperial march of hundred 
thousand boots in fever 
wakens the darkness under the milk. 

Famished ghost of a town 
can foresee the rumbling of 
a dark moon behind the trees. 

Bullet for bullet 
in inner empire. 
Gold lips cry at every reason. 

Burnt-out shrine will tell a tale. 
They were diluting silence of walls, 
blood stained by the crash of towers.

Satish Verma