Against Deportation

Satish Verma

Ahead of pain, we did not cry; 
intimating of dreams, crowded; 
stranded on issues, reaching nowhere. 

Black, a weired hairdo, unfurls a moon 
in half-sleep. You can open the door 
without sound. The snake writhes under your feet. 

A traveler waits for a hymn, holds a green 
urn, full of tiny eyes, looks at sky and returns 
the darkness for any possibility of light. 

The missile whistles down; hushed, gnarled 
fingers start the rescue efforts in a lonely 
cosmos; goldilocks starts howling. 

Terror strikes again in offering, so far 
about nothingness; a vague, masked scapegoat 
sits in bold greens, to start the beginning of end.