Helmeted Version

Satish Verma

Will the shouts work 
on blood seeds in climate of conflicts? 
Winter was shrinking. 

Give me a hand. 
I am going to invite clouds softly. 
Let the drumming start. 

War has broken out 
on many fronts 
for a god, for the grains 

and for the golden gates. 
Where shall we plant 
the sacred tulsi? 

You need a holy soil for that. 
The transliteration of a famished lake 
throws a foul smell. 

Will you be able to walk 
on the ice again? 
Outside the climate of change? 

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