Apple Picking
Immenseness of the contrast –
from blue eyes to red apples,
(we must stop apple picking!)
from smashed leg to a stone wall –
squanders the soft toys of time.
A peach colored queen lies in state
from centuries
to be buried in a golden casket.
Poverty of words,
hunts for the meaning, rhyme and consonance.
I drink darkness from the white lips.
Green eyes will find,
a sun at last.
The urn is broken.
The scented hairs cover my face –
tendrils of a brute fate.
A mutilated mirror will reflect the distorted history
of man, through the ages of dust
and wounds. The earth was riveting the god.
SATISH VERMA
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