IN THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE

I tossed back the hot questions 
before searching the answer. 
Flaming torso of a limbless man 
was seeking a place to rest his soul. 

I inhale the death's pungent odour 
so opiating and so brutal. 
Burning train chokes the windows 
calmly, billowing the ebony smoke. 

Cries mingled with whistling men, 
haggarded infants were stupefied. 
Grass was their pillow and stone 
was the bed. 

Courage was needed to write a poem 
to fill the vast emptiness of a long night 
without moon, when human torches 
were throwing the light.

Satish Verma