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