Satish Verma

There was the hunger 
and suicide. 
In favor of my brutal truth 
or virtue of my failure, 
I do not want any comments on my trauma. 
Morality has a dubious equation 
with power, provoking my anger. 

The days were full of abandoned kilns. 
No more shaping of containers 
in which one can put the moon, 
and honey and roses. 
Everything was turning brown 
with infinite, sulphur smelling teeth 
ready to bite into golden flesh. 

Convicts behind the walls were playing 
with mirrors to throw the light on slick 
towers. Death was laughing, waiting on the trees, 
eating black berries. 
And I was forced to taste the blood of sky 
with sodium – 
in sanctum sanctorum.