Satish Verma

small things ask some uncomfortable 
questions. I enter the eye of a wound. 

Unscathed, will i obey the law 
of believing; the round mirror? 
It reflects the absolute truth? 

they begin the attack in the valley 
of thoughts; words, were hung 
over the paper, spill the ink 

like blood on the street. 
Who will lift the corpse? 

Words on the wings; 
let them drop 
like stones, like knives. The flesh is raw, 
bones white a century is going to sing.