The Buddha Was Going To Weep
For the fusion of minds
let the long vigil of night begin
for a cultural shock.
Prayer wheels were whirring
furtively.
The Buddha was going to weep.
Imperial march of hundred
thousand boots in fever
wakens the darkness under the milk.
Famished ghost of a town
can foresee the rumbling of
a dark moon behind the trees.
Bullet for bullet
in inner empire.
Gold lips cry at every reason.
Burnt-out shrine will tell a tale.
They were diluting silence of walls,
blood stained by the crash of towers.
SATISH VERMA
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