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Salt Plunged
Folder:
Satish Verma Seizing the fire after hidden sorrow
predicted the synchronized slaughter of
the river, bodies were being ditched
secretly. The sparkle of waves was murderous.
Blue wings of tall dangers dodged
between war and hatred. The golden
face of a child was smeared with blood.
You carry a moth to be burned on a flame.
The black rose hangs in balance,
against the red cross. A sea of white ants
was entering into a microchip to eat the
months of prayer. Nation’s crimes were
pinned for troops to turn the gold
into dust. Catch my hand if you grieve
for the lost mother carrying the child
of century for burial.
