DECAYED CENTURY

One by one kites were alighting on the roof top.
Door were banging and a smell was rising
like the anger of a house.
It was sobbing morning in frenzy
before the sunrise, when every instrument
was asleep and god was shut in the shrine.

Splinters had pierced the innocent chests
and blood ran on the stones.
A beautiful day for the suicide bomber.
Pain wore an illuminated crown.

On tower of violence and brutal death
birds are waiting for a feast of tender flesh
from the shattered limbs.

Quietly rises the sun on a decayed century.

Satish Verma