PRIDE OF VALLEY

When the battle lines were drawn, 
the only mandate 
for the human torpedo was to blow up 
the silence of time. 

Sick was the death-struck 
new born, praise of the ghost of tiger 
in the name of glory of green eyes. 
The orange moon was absolutely naked; 

the snow dripped in a cave to form a cone 
and the valley was burning wide. 
The bag of charcoal given 
to a shephered had turned into gold- 

nuggets at home. The vultured sky 
was claiming more bodies. 
A miracle was swelling the crowd 
and the crown was proud of deaths.

Satish Verma