On a sizzling riverbed, how many suicides
will make up the loss of a green moon? Must
we count our rags in sleep? Victims of a
manipulated music of bricks!
I thought, I will give you more, taking
less of you, have finally laid to rest the attacking
needles in the black holes of flesh. In rains we
will cry endlessly.
Another promise broken, would watch the stars
to set forth the eggs. A melon sweetens the
tongue of dissenters and robes are taken
off after the helicopter crash.
On the palms opium grows, bubbles learn
to float with the words of priests who were
reciting hymns to anoint the new incumbent,
will start the black magic again for mass slimming.
Satish Verma
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