WITHOUT QUALMS

He resumed walking with the sun 
propelled in river of fire of blunt red 
and striking yellow to resonate with the pain of her, 
who sleeps on the thighs of a temple tree. 

The vibrations still follow the echo of forgiveness, 
a shadow of palm rises on white wounds. 
The snoring of blood letting winds break the 
bones crisply, on the jealous shores. 

Where was the need of sharp edges to slice 
the heart? The words spilled on the table 
like blood curdling bats. The candle light 
turns black with a guilt. 

Small gods are weeping inside the tear 
scorched eyes. Somebody prays for the fallen 
monuments of tongues and bullet killed bells 
of tributes. Stars started hiding their faces.

Satish Verma