# #betrayal #life #forgivness #suffering #sadness #pain #mistakes #madness #poetry #broken

What Has To Stay

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Like I want to erase the fear 
before I light a remote fire 
in the blue veins. 

Actually this was the crisis of self pride 
in manic depression 
seeking the anonymity of toes 
tracing the footpath. 

Becoming a paper-boat 
in the winds of flesh and fancies 
on the choppy sea of death. 

No spinal pain for candles 
to burn in courtyard 
of sunken faith. 

Red grapes in a tiny bowl 
leap to lips of sun 
for sons and daughters. Ajmer, INDIA 

Calendar

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Writing on my sleeves, 
I visualize an invisible coupling 
of grassroots with starless sky, 
when I walk on the wailing earth. 

Hails big as sparrow eggs 
smash the bougainvillea blossoms. 
The wrestling clouds 
begin a storm. 

Witchcraft of the moon begins. 
The pubic curve of a rock 
holds a centipede 
wriggling, gnawing. 

A spider climbs the weatherbeaten 
cheekbone 
and indulges in navel-gazing.

Scenic Beauty

Folder: 
Satish Verma

What do you think 
a redemption of a clone will work 
in the galaxy of stars? 

The hope was drying and violence 
refuses to decline in the valley of flowers. 
Orphaned moon climbs up the hill 
to preside over the murmuring truths. 

Nothing seems to work 
for the liberation of long night 
and the winds put off the lantern’s light 
which was standing on the shore. 

A black widow crawls on my chest 
for a certain drenching by a sucked heart. 
Still I stare at the black eyes 
for a washed up death.

Only Being

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Walking the path with otherness; 
not achieving anything, 
I, condemned, to remain solitary, decline 
to join the gods of a crowd. So that 
my sun, remains shadowless. 

No, it is not the final verdict. 
I was always incomplete, unburdening 
my cipher, failing against the blood 
that demanded uninterrupted flow, blending 
right and wrong. My words were too much 

to say No. The melting snow remembered 
the names of the trees. On the breast of 
earth a signature theme plucks the 
grass to make way for the rose beds. This 
makes no secret of betrayal. 

Less prudent, I blunder, try to untie myself 
from future, and become little me, playing 
with the mask of present, carrying my blankness 
to become hungry again, for the knowledge 
which was never my fatal being. 

Pink Eyes

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Pigments on rocks were darkening. 
Violence had permeated like skunk. 
Enough to go numb. Stream of blood. 
Entire limbs were missing. You want to go 
insane, deoxygenated. 

The bomber was going to face a firing squad. 
Were you ready to bring back the body 
home? Mother was wailing? 
Law was blind and absurd. A victim wants 
the terrorist to live, arms severed, genitalia 
blown off! 

Was it in you, the violence? Guilt in me? 
Are we not responsible? As a price of sorrow 
I resort to silence. Nonviolence accepts the evil, 
the fact, the truth of now. 

Fear? The decline? A collective dying? I 
cannot cry. It hurts the arguments. I am 
red and bruised. Will not survive the sunset. 
The subsequent years are bleeding. 

Judgement

Folder: 
Satish Verma

In a death-trap of a stadium, 
as if I am stoned to death. 
Chrysanthemums bloomed in vain. 

On your body three beasts climbed 
for ravaging a fawn. 
The rape was only your fault, 
you had to die. 

When a crowd of thousand bystanders 
came to watch your mutilated body, 
you had left for home, 
uncrying and bleeding. 

A human soul, 
undefended. 
Now a script will be protected. 

Stones leap to praise the ghosts. 

Losing Again

Folder: 
Satish Verma

If erupts again – 
the eternal hate of caucuses. 
A pipe bomb detonates in a gulley. 

Death glides as a superman 
like a mutiny in the bowl. 

Night stumbles against the kissing moon 
on the shore of waning hope. 

I will not mourn for my color 
I am still nursing a grief. 

Walking alone in the shadow of walls 
to unhear the screams of dawn. 

A Spirit’s Tale

Folder: 
Satish Verma

They brought back saddle 
without the warrior. 
Wrinkled eyes of a broken mother 
frozen with tears, pick up the pieces of carpet 
woven with blood. 

Lotuses are disappearing 
from the serene lake; migrated to seeds. 
There are no visitors. 

Who was losing the battle? 
Have not you heard about militancy 
and mutilated god? We gave him 
our sons and daughters, still he was hungry. 

The mankind celebrates the decline, 
mourning hills, 
dances with the bones of ancestors.

Irony

Folder: 
Satish Verma

A severed hand on my shoulder 
wrenches it off. 
You sit on a toadstool 
to measure the depth of grass. 

A raven scans the earth: 
nothing was left to eat. 
The hungry urchins had 
already punctured the garbage can. 

A live show of committing suicide 
will take place tonight. 
To become silent in roaring noises 
was the outcome of a dive. 

A terrorist in pilgrim’s pouch walks past 
a bomb. The wires reach in the schism 
of a faith. Again you cry in your skin 
for sake of a forgotten god.