Bleeding Day

Bilobed ginkgo resolves the conflict of soul and body on the right side of truth, laid out on a table visited by desolation; here comes the crash of bodies. You stand up against the end of beginning to lock eyes with destiny, answer obliquely to raw questions about the baking in plastic cauldrons, when heat was rising in blue veins. Engulfed in fumes of muscular words, resonant with agitation of black banners at the door; who will stop the sea of whispering veils defying the shower of bullets coming from windows. They were out in black night, impoverished, burning inside, in grass green mud, covering the ornate faces. Folks dissipating on blunt shades, your sun outraged. Six steps to reach the house, you take six hours. It was naked and desperate aggression. SATISH VERMA