Stoned
The presiding deity makes a dry run
for a meaningless pride of frightened
amphibians, under the mud, on the clouds
who have no faces, no limbs.
The citadel laments over a spiritual arc.
You might get out of the battlefield
with a blue eye and trembling gestures.
The black guilt with a love letter arrives.
The voices sting. He was arranging his
white flowing beard, ready to make a compromise.
The ravaged landscape now waits for the
green rains, matching the stoned remedies.
SATISH VERMA
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