Midnight Shots

Satish Verma

The bull's-eye on 
your chest, the black marker 
on death apparel, was 
turning red after the shots rang out. 
Somewhere in a golden cage a parakeet starts― 

And which means, each grain 
of the last portrait you― 
made would inherit the color 
of the dying sun. We were 
martyrs bulled by milk of the 
religion of the state. 

After sometime there will be 
no news of you. We will 
forget, forget the footsteps 
of past, our golds would bloom 
in the garden of hate. The mystique 
of palace will bask in glory.