Salt Plunged

Seizing the fire after hidden sorrow predicted the synchronized slaughter of the river, bodies were being ditched secretly. The sparkle of waves was murderous. Blue wings of tall dangers dodged between war and hatred. The golden face of a child was smeared with blood. You carry a moth to be burned on a flame. The black rose hangs in balance, against the red cross. A sea of white ants was entering into a microchip to eat the months of prayer. Nation’s crimes were pinned for troops to turn the gold into dust. Catch my hand if you grieve for the lost mother carrying the child of century for burial. SATISH VERMA