The Myth Of Zero

Satish Verma

Under the jacaranda tree, 
near the fragrant trunk, 
lies a sheet of blue trumpet― 
shaped flowers. 

You are home, near 
the lotus feet of marbled 
Buddha, standing erect. 

You are walling in 
Agni's wrath, with wild thoughts. 
The somatization becomes very unkind. 

It foretells the reality. 
Curves take you to lakes. You read more 
of the depth of water. 

What was the avant-garde 
of new age, against 
the tight lips of crusade?