The Predicament

Joined by the funeral, we sit down, under the blue sky, fire watching, sequentialling the processions. Ultimately one by one they come, to dust, hands turned down. After close of the rainbow there is an explosion and a transition censored by stone age. They flee from the shrapnels to swathe in bioluminence of death. The penury makes a fanciest atrocity. A pockmarked moon stands there to listen the scandalized whispers of crulest legends in century’s hopelessness, guilt’s bleeding. You never chained the voice of booms. A god mourns in fading light. SATISH VERMA