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The Bloody Hand
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Satish Verma You must be precise.
I am in search of me.
No clue, yet to find the hand,
which was baked in the klin─
and that did not feel the pain.
It was all over. No need to nurse
anybody. The wounds, the multiple
bullet marks. Did you see it coming?
The fusillade, which lit up the room?
You become the question to find the
answer. Come out of the body.
There was no spring in sight.
It was a long winter of sealed lips
You must be color-blind.
The roses look black. The
avalanche was red!
Satish Verma
