Naive Innocence

O pink horse, O timeless sun, run on my body, run. Black magic had pierced the needles into my heart. Lying on nails to wrest a superearth from amnesty, I start bandaging the bruised ethos of my native conscience – on the spike of a violence, refusing to give up my home to fire, tending the voiceless flora of a virgin rock. The questions stand up, against the black walls of silence. The blue birds are going to fly in white desert. Satish Verma