SPRING WAS MAULED

The crisis, 
a distinctive nothing, 
swaps the dignity with blood. 
The world hogs around 
your palatial words. 
The throb drips from your temples. 
Hate or love it, 
the barren prelude looms large. 
I am going for a drift. 

It comes back again 
and again the debris of dream 
of circling wolves. 
The crisp moon outlines the contours of hills. 
I fight with a stiff translation 
of a truth. Deep rituals will always hound. 
I escape from my body, 
unfreeze my ego. 

The stars did not help. 
The space widened between doors. 
Illusions outlined the 
shadows of dead years. 
Must we praise the seeping 
poision in our bones? 
No God had been spared, 
the spring was mauled 
by prowling summer.

Satish Verma