The Thick Skins

Satish Verma

Anointed truth 
had no path. Path 
was the truth. 

Not a play of 
emotions. I am talking 
about the transparent 
leaves pressed in the books 
of fake religions. 

When there were 
fireflies, you deleted the rains 
and sapwood saved 
the lip's blues. 

You rolled around 
the burning pyre. Flames were 
embracing the dark lies, 
about the brailled poems. 

Perfectly in harmony, 
Bach was being played by 
a blind artist. Did you know it? 

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