Bloodscape

Monologue of a monolith to live in a moment was futile. A young house was in disorder. Not listening, I would find the missing links. Grey ash to be smeared on forehead in horizontal lines for shifting the planets. The age creeps quietly, irremediably poor, unchanged in hysteria : after hysterectomy the womb lies in dirt. Ethnic violence will fill the carts of mutilated bodies, move to market, selling the rage. Be in today, or tomorrow, the blood brings honour. Do not complain of weather, these arthritic fingers, crooked toes, you will end on a cliff after the logic of war fails. A bald year moves, untrusting the noble men, I ascend a coin to find the circa of topless democracies destroying the pillars of feet. SATISH VERMA