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
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