DEATH ON GRASS

Sometime, somewhere I will break 
into many moons - 
an oblique answer to a terrestrial question 
of a pale river. 

The heat is on, because of the 
fatal mistakes. Violence has pregnancy. 
Walls stand alone without a roof 
hauling the suicidal balloons. 

Blue berries are becoming scarce. 
Vision short, we cannot see in the night. 
Crystals in candlelight become green, 
images creeping tall under the trees. 

Of total failure, the chemistry of love 
patches up with arithmetic of aristocracy. 
Spoils the show of neutrality 
in sky, hurting the gods. 

I am stuck with autistic heroes 
in poor desert of a waking sun. 
Death on grass will never show 
the second birth of the pain.

Satish Verma