* The Dead Tiger

Satish Verma

the hunt begins after sunset 
under cracked moon, blindfolded clouds 
start visiting volitionlessly: 

the nesting eagles, I choose 
this bitter absurdity of large wings 
under the sun, where they will announce the shade, 

a lonely patch of life, of signature 
kill of future, the metamorphosis of a street 
into unending wait; 

undress the sleeping lion 
of combat fatigue, his brain splattered, 
the dreams moved like tectonic plates 

* On seeing the body of Vellupillai Prabhakaran