OF A VIRGIN GOD

Partly clad 
full moon 
was taking a bath on hills. 
Trees were waiting 
for the curtains to rise. 

Scented stars would make 
giant scars on the clouds, 
I would make peace with the sky. 
Lids of human greed were laden 
with golden dust, I was hoisting the skull. 

Of a virgin god who did not 
want to live for the blotched up creation. 
The decline was obvious. Truth 
had refused to climb 
on the sky-blue, salted peaks of springs. 

Body had arrived, 
mourners quietly wailing. 
Gouged eyes could not decipher 
the script on the halved pyramid. 
Sun was sucking the clay.

Satish Verma