Against Deportation

Ahead of pain, we did not cry; intimating of dreams, crowded; stranded on issues, reaching nowhere. Black, a weired hairdo, unfurls a moon in half-sleep. You can open the door without sound. The snake writhes under your feet. A traveler waits for a hymn, holds a green urn, full of tiny eyes, looks at sky and returns the darkness for any possibility of light. The missile whistles down; hushed, gnarled fingers start the rescue efforts in a lonely cosmos; goldilocks starts howling. Terror strikes again in offering, so far about nothingness; a vague, masked scapegoat sits in bold greens, to start the beginning of end. SATISH VERMA