Ancient Tribe
Biting your lips in smugness, you plumr
by shedding your moonskin for a serpentine
dance of an enigmatic inheritance of war
on a day when you worship the virgins and weapons.
Diabolically drunk on the victory, the trees
have stopped bearing fruits and a volcano
has opened a vent. The dew jumps into the lake
grieving for the lost sky.
About the life we look again, the real nothingness,
the rise of fine imitations, of self made religions,
and the tyranny of red-eyed bulls trampling
on divinity and the thin blood filling the rivers.
Satish Verma
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