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Introspective
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Satish Verma the pulsating ache of flogging
after internal cave-in, a goldfish gets smeared
with sperm, unclosing, opening a slaughtered canal
for the drooping roses under the black wings
of shame when in our translucency we were
generously distributing arms to legless boys
for transporting the name across the aisle of memories,
the history repeats again in agony
of centuries. The salt inside a name wakes up
a darkness hauled up from eyes of faithfulls
between the sentences and nude angels, a stroke
will empty the womb of earth;
i do not want to know, what will happen to shaking
robots of mercy-homes, drilling the holes in
walls of love? Will the rain come again of red
drizzle on the mountains, the drought had already sucked up
