Satish Verma

A grandson sails through the century 
jumps into the chair of grandfather 
and revokes the death penalty 
for the iconoclast who refuses to be alive. 

A truth should be deemed again 
to find the mystery of death. 
Between man and divinity 
lies the fiction 
which no body wants to write off. 

Green goes the sea in full moon 
the earth has a debt to pay. 
Sometimes you walk a long distance 
to know when the sun will rise. 

Unchanged remains the odor of wind. 
The chest feels the punch 
fetching the burden of roaring sounds 
in the domain of soundless solitude. 

The grandfather is lifted by untainted words. 
Still swallowing the emotions 
the peacocks on a tall tree scrambling, 
scream in unison.