Where A God Sleeps

Satish Verma

At the end of the day, 
standing before a shut window― 
in fear of power game 
under a cataract of twilight. 

A panther had visited 
again at night in your courtyard― 
to sniff out the 
hidden moons. 

Your ism was on fire. 
Logic gone. The weird neighbors 
had become bedfellows. 

A dirty war will ensue 
between the translation and 
original script, in fake 
and real. 

You slap a drum. Pathos. 
I have reached where I 
did not want to.