In the Garden of Gethsemane
I tossed back the hot questions
before searching the answer.
Flaming torso of a limbless man
was seeking a place to rest his soul.
I inhale the death’s pungent odour
so opiating and so brutal.
Burning train chokes the windows
calmly, billowing the ebony smoke.
Cries mingled with whistling men,
haggarded infants were stupefied.
Grass was their pillow and stone
was the bed.
Courage was needed to write a poem
to fill the vast emptiness of a long night
without moon, when human torches
were throwing the light.
SATISH VERMA
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