Short Decapitation Poems

knelt before the guillotine
anticipation of my decapitation...

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Endless stretch the tracks 
  of those who’ve ‘accomplished’!
The chilling realization
  Iron's flash, decapitation
    History's knife, expurgation...
   
What once moved men’s hearts
   relentless clawed apart ~
Fickle be the art
   of every fresh start...

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The looting; the crying
The shooting; the dying
The terror; the fright
The horror; the flight
The torture; the pain
The effort; the strain
The nightmarish dreams
The blood chilling screams
The stench; the decay
The struggle, the dismay
The unthinkable
The abominable
The demolition
The decapitation
The execution
The extermination
The anguish
To languish
The mercilessness
And fruitlessness
And woe
Of war...

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It was a very ordinary day
uncelebrated.
A nephrite sits on the flanks,
I gravitate  between smile and tears.

What will happen,
had not happened earlier,
moon will walk away from the sun,
to sit in dark
unhealed and unsutured.

It was the day of son
of the soil,
beheading by a sword the language and speech.
How can you divide the sky,
the trees, the rivers ?

And the flock descends on the chairs
to watch the art of decapitation.

 

Satish Verma...

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It was a very ordinary day
uncelebrated.
A nephrite sits on the flanks,
I gravitate  between smile and tears.

What will happen,
had not happened earlier,
moon will walk away from the sun,
to sit in dark
unhealed and unsutured.

It was the day of son
of the soil,
beheading by a sword the language and speech.
How can you divide the sky,
the trees, the rivers ?

And the flock descends on the chairs
to watch the art of decapitation.

 

Satish Verma...

Read More

It was a very ordinary day
uncelebrated.
A nephrite sits on the flanks,
I gravitate  between smile and tears.

What will happen,
had not happened earlier,
moon will walk away from the sun,
to sit in dark
unhealed and unsutured.

It was the day of son
of the soil,
beheading by a sword the language and speech.
How can you divide the sky,
the trees, the rivers ?

And the flock descends on the chairs
to watch the art of decapitation.

 

Satish Verma...

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Facing the world like a judge;
A judge in his own case,
which ended with a phrase,
‘Guilty’ my lord.

For aeon of its destruction,
which for long cost it its beauty,
and its ancestral history said in misery.
Will I ever get an absolution?

Absolution from the air,
and the breeze the trees give unpaid
But with decapitation I repaid the Acacia.

Absolution from the beauty I trampled on in recur.
Will I ever be forgiven?
Oh! Please, answer me Mother Nature....

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After decapitation, it was
half-honour,
half-land,
and half-bread.
We had prepared ourselves for epilation.

A war for milky sap 
starts for an empty chair.
You are asked to abandon
your field and go for
a hate profile.

The gated religion now
scars the high searing, wayward  
fronds of untangeled age
of absent truths and
faithful lies.

I will go again to
find the answer in a similar
darkness to stand 
my unconditioned faith
to stumilate the unflowing river.


Satish Verma...

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