Inverted
A tribal instinct stops the nemesis :
Spraying the blood-soaked, small
foot prints on my chest;
unlocking, I accept
myself.
Why contained anger
of awesome ache over the periphery ?
Through the atrophied, black limbs -
an elite infusion of trespassing knowledge ?
The green adolescence was waiting in chains.
The hoarseness as from a cyanosed throat
after the sips of hemlock, the brave ascending
of a gaint stroke on the cheeks of death ;
the dust will sing a farewell
to a river of tears !
End was not me on the chainsaw
a chamomile will wipe the blemishes of the Grail.
SATISH VERMA
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