No Carnage

Satish Verma

A house without doors 
I was living 
in fog. 

The infamous review 
will tell about the 
fallen words from the roof. 

There was no history, 
no culture of 

I only exhaled 
the grief of centuries 
shielding the ankle's pain. 

There had been no 
perfect picture of the 
dancing god in nude. 

A blue face swims. 
I draw the map of the smell 
of cinders.