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Still In Grief
Folder:
Satish Verma I have become disconnected.
Talking of pose, while shooting
in back, several questions
arise of a staged drama―
missing the lethal word,
releasing the venom.
Poetry of politics becomes evident.
You may spurn the actors,
but the pretence overwhelms.
For testing the secret of depth,
you go down in water
unarmed.
You pull a stretcher, now―
unwrapped. The cremains sink
in the sea― of tears,
unsettling the designed pebbles,
the needles. The tapestry starts burning.
