Drumming

in hired spring and naked thighs the eternal sorrow did not go, it was living in our memory under the gun of an unknown soldier. The mania had brought the overwhelming jeopardy of artificial smiles, the swords, and ropes and different tools of torture brew abomination, my clay absorbs the shock, the abandonement of pain; I reach for the icicles of veiled fire to burn the generosity, the sacrificial amputation of one’s own neck in service of opposition SATISH VERMA