A Dead Song

Satish Verma

They were ready 
to suck the crowd. The child was pushed 
into lentil soup, boiling, to appease the rain god. 

Shining masks, the celebration starts; 
surging a myth, crown of hawthorn, 
hallucinating dance. 

The people lick their fingers, 
feast for claws and incisers 
I run for the cross, please wait. 

Emptying tomorrow in the lifting 
hands of blunt queen. The watercolor 
was casting the vote. 

A freedom descends on the wounded 
legs, as they drag with nobility. 
Thumb by thumb you clutch the tree.