Wrenching
The crisis starts boiling
about the invisible foes.
The contraptions hope to recapture
the moods.
Harsh, arrogant and ritualistic.
In the stark nudity of silence
a wooden Buddha lies on the
floor crying.
“ I am not happy, I am not happy.
Why were you still a virgin ?”
White butterflies will not sit
on jasmines to lose their script.
There was a black moon to chase
the fugitive. There will be no midnight
sun. Between lips and cups
the grey fox had lighted a lamp.
Satish Verma
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