Of a Virgin God

Partly clad full moon was taking a bath on hills. Trees were waiting for the curtains to rise. Scented stars would make giant scars on the clouds, I would make peace with the sky. Lids of human greed were laden with golden dust, I was hoisting the skull. Of a virgin god who did not want to live for the blotched up creation. The decline was obvious. Truth had refused to climb on the sky-blue, salted peaks of springs. Body had arrived, mourners quietly wailing. Gouged eyes could not decipher the script on the halved pyramid. Sun was sucking the clay. SATISH VERMA