Satish Verma

Focused on burgundy palms 
as the age blinks, 
you start distressing on a unipolar 
pinnacle, biting the nails. 
The road absorbs the horizon. 

Perched on a controversial tree 
the birds break into small events 
to reach the grass roots. A transparent question 
always chases you about the consequence 
of a war with troubled priests. 

Do we need nitrous oxide to offset the gloom 
of hovering religion? One enchanted 
crowd spills in copycats to bring about 
a revolution in ranks who were busy 
in translating the epics of past.