Written by: Satish Verma

There was a pithy art on velvety rock.
The turban was flying 
churning out the outrage.

No sanitized verse was needed 
to explain xenophobia.
We were white tigers.

Lurking behind the moon
was a lute, with broken strings.
A sluice opens the grief of sky.

Show me your palm with full
of curses. Where do you want
to leave the prints of death ?

Alphabets were counting the
steps, towards non-center. The
boundaries were collapsing.

Satish Verma