A proxy life
I was fighting in the hourglass
to open the pathways of a grain
for a bloody birth of an idea.
Was time faithful to us
when we were drifting apart ?
A prowling big cat had again attacked in dark
and broken the necks of lambs.
Now miracles are flying
and you want to get the solid gold
hidden in a borewell, the colour
of a sunset and a yellow wager.
Today I will forget the grief
of generations, dispossessed of death and myths.
You have not lifted the pugmarks
unburdening my truth.
Satish Verma
After the puppet show,
the nest was calling.
Indeed, the leaves held the slanted light
expanding the shade snared on branches,
of dancing ash, of almond eyes.
Why the hangman was waiting
for the echo? The river was calling.
Was this the inheritance of less
talent of pugmarks, which strayed
into the city of abused words ?
The book was calling ?
After birth there was no death of my
rhyme. The flesh has gone, only
the burning bones are lying
on bed of roses.
Satish Verma