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