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Not My Angst
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Satish Verma Tribal instinct spares none.
You change the script,
and come out to see the murmuration
of a flock of starlings.
The precision, the blend
make you wonder about the harmony
of small birds in unison,
an army moves as one body.
O man, your mathematics
has gone absurd. The sects and
cults. The zealot, the devout.
Brother, I will say unleafing must start.
More poems?
That does not work.
All the daffodils go blind.
Thousands of years go―
in making a vision.
