Satish Verma

Death wil wash 
the feet of truth. 
Grass, where the blood spilled 
has gone for sale. 

A pink eye stalks 
the night in dark 
humility. You know 
moon was rising. 

A melting pot rips 
apart the ghost. 
Besottled I celebrate 
the arrival of flames. 

Thirsty, you throw the 
ice cubes on the ramp. 
Butterflies are going to 
visit the altar.