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Corpse Is Being Sent
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Satish Verma In the stand-off
between stolen history
and presiding deity
priest was hanged, while a blue cloud
was shedding the yellow moon.
Who was selling god on the road?
A tall coconut tree was my home;
all but your mouth was shut.
Face to face I am ready to leak
the secret of panic attack in open space,
it rips open the unhealed wounds.
The shot holes on the walls
were still bleeding.
I am getting visions of birds, trees and hills.
A pacific coast was punished
for not joining the conflict.
Corpse is being sent on shores.
