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