Satish Verma

Afraid to ask, the white 
fingers, to write a name on black paper. 

The milky way.*Janus will 
trap the light and open the doors. 

War of words was not 
going to stop. The alphabets do- 

not pronounce well. The- 
rape, the brutality, the mutilated death? 

The mother tongue weeps. 
The masks will write a history, in exile. 

Throwing the coins? The 
real face becomes a poem, lifting the wrists.