SOME QUESTION MARKS

Don’t go brutal in the veins
blood is diluted
life has become complex.
Barefoot truth walks,
in the sun without shadows.
We are beaten by lies.
The caste aside had a carnal thrust,
and the stars were weeping.

I will die of a primordial death one day.
What is the central theme, of present life?
It has no nuances, only the numerical strength of passions.
Question marks are leaving,
an omnipresent stink everywhere.

An awakening without,
a flame does not inspire
a hidden defeat of haloed touchstone.
I will go for a swim,
in the dead sea to taste,
the salt of all the white moons.
How would our forefathers
know the masks?

Satish Verma