Satish Verma

A near cult glows/ on faces― 
for harvesting peace, 
saluting each other, without flame. 

I have come so far 
though you did not want the winds to move. 

A new theme was 
developing. The first wicket has fallen. 
The collective suicide 
will follow. 

Invoking the sun, you stay in shadows, 
without qualms to hear 
the swish of swords. 

The phenomenalist, 
strides confidingly to read your mind. 
Heart cries―