Death of Absence

Gladioli stand in a tantric daze under siege of prism. The colors fall dangling, unsettling silent memories. I thought I was nervous while playing a smell game of wild guns, when tanks were rolling out on streets. A final farewell before exiting the garden, in my ceremony of death. A child lies down waiting for the boots. The wheat grass of beggars, never to mourn a falling cloud undesires a drop of blood on tongue spilling on skin. A terrified leaf disturbs a mirror, civilized image of a private crystal, beyond the virulence of hiding legs. SATISH VERMA