The Applause

Let me reinter again in frozen lake the body of truth – murdered by a golden bomb. Death was a scored exile under the mound of earth, festering on the pages of history. The killer was next night, driving carefully between the blown up bridges. Nightmarish was the frostbite in the alpine, drowning of pathological lies, of surreal blues. Obscurity of searing hate blinds the frame of pagoda. Budha will never speak again. SATISH VERMA