REMINISCENCE

That grave alchemy 
of cold fusion, 
of turning mercury into gold, 
makes me undone 
in a fit of anger. 
Punished before the crime committed, 
of saying no for yes, 
of disobedience in the face of a command, 
I am becoming a beggar again. 

The land of gold dust 
evokes a disquieting sadness. 
Smell of hunger and blood, takes 
me to concrete nothings, 
collects the emptiness from the wrinkled eyes. 
The lake-salt, dry loaves and onions for a quiet dinner. 

Fear in absence, 
starts a fear of future, 
the sound of unblinking darkness whispering.

Satish Verma