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Poem

In culture of counterfeits
a snip of intelligent gene
brings the pink tears
for the brown eyes.

A virgin goes for a spade
in the naked sun.
Let me think of polymorphism.
Can there be an answer-

for oblique questions ?
Can this tottering frame live ?
Life can still stalk the death
and stand for the body in the sack ?

Fielding the enquiry about race –
gap, you said the walls
are crumbling. I read the message
half-believing.

As a whole, the glory lives.
Is that true ?


•	
 

The gentle rain falls on
the emaciated Buddha.
Stand out from the controversy.
A foam-born goddess will
counterpoise the questions.


The grievers are sitting
in a circle for the dying moon.
The charred breast of earth
sends the flames.

Who has closed the window
of morning glory ? My blackened
words are traveling fast 
to reach the stars. I am
held in a shadow.



Satish Verma

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