Satish Verma

To undo, the rare 
appearance of a god; 
scouring the water, before the 
sun, divides the land. 

What was the worth 
of a ritual, around the fallen virtues? 
The salt lake threw up 
the broken genes. 

The swirling sand covers 
the boat, stranded on the beach. 
A tempest is waited upon. The 
gestures carry a message. 

No authority. 
I do not want to corrupt myself. 
There was a narrow path 
leading to the pink eyes.