* the Dead Tiger

the hunt begins after sunset under cracked moon, blindfolded clouds start visiting volitionlessly: the nesting eagles, I choose this bitter absurdity of large wings under the sun, where they will announce the shade, a lonely patch of life, of signature kill of future, the metamorphosis of a street into unending wait ; undress the sleeping lion of combat fatigue, his brain splattered, the dreams moved like tectonic plates SATISH VERMA * On seeing the body of Vellupillai Prabhakaran