Satish Verma

You were comfortable, 
when you abused in native speech. 
After the conviction, 
there was smoke and ash. 

Bring down the white plumes 
from the volcano's crater, 
and begin the swan song 
for the sake of vanishing grace. 

It is my turn now to 
walk in penumbra, wrapping 
off the dark core of human mind 
and give a prelude to matephors. 

Below the wings, the 
trapped wind lifts the fallacy 
of a fall when you were 
already buried in a shadowless flesh.