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Translating Death
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Satish Verma Dancing on the trembling
flames, virtually
remaining calm, I was just
watching your hands― the palms, and
only the stance of pointing fingers.
I mimic the death
in a cage, burned alive―
or beheaded by a black night
under the moon. One digit added
to the depth of an ocean,
which has no shores.
One day, you will forget
me, walk away from the hand-written
beautiful calligraphy, describing the agony
of man, who would not drop
his pen, even, tyranny tearing away
his limbs.
