Broken Promise

Who will deliver the blow to hissing winds of red hot skin when burning desert hits the green trees? Life flows through fire in the shadows of cloudy peaks. I resume living in the bodies of other people, I am not myself. And change must come in the garb of numbers, in the mode of nothingness, like the horns locked in the middle of the road, raising dust and hoofs two bulls fighting in the ruins of widespread culture of politics. Only slogans give the clue to black power of flesh. A dispute does not settle for the last rites. Neither burial nor a funeral will take place. Only bones will give rise to a flower bed where ashes will read the history. SATISH VERMA