Thinking Again

Satish Verma

Not finding a path 
to truth, 
going beyond the gods. You 
will not listen to my pleas― 
still frozen in unthruths. 

Death opens the― 
holy darkness. I am aware of 
the bluffs and black voodoos, 
insertion of pins. 

Moon-bitten, chasing 
the blood cherries, you reach 
for the yogi cult in trance. 
Every night becomes green. 

The sacred knife, cuts 
the knot, sort of a hinge. 
A celebration starts 
throwing stones 
on each other.