History Repeats

Satish Verma

My killing instincts 
were intact. 
On this bloody moon day― 
I must talk to myself. 

Just lips would move, 
not the mind. 

A mode of non-being 
comes in fore. You watch the pansies dancing― 

The air passes. White phosphorus 
ignites on its own. 

Memory alternates with pain. 
It is not over. 
We are still searching ourselves 
in a mound of earth.