A Day of Counting

You gave it when you were poor. Today I went to unwrap the gift. The soul ! Ripping out from the body to deconstruct my vernacular pain. Pulling off the toenails to extract a promise. Feet first ; the birth of a child to die sooner in the crib. My brother, tell me, do you understand my imperishable grief. For a future’s peace sing my poem, sing ascendancy. For laughing skulls in a killing field, ideation will become a routine talk. Give me a hand, brother, am I insane? Becoming teeth of wisdom was a crime? SATISH VERMA