When the debate between
temple versus state was heating up,
death was passing through a green field.
A nervous embrace
of solatium was unstable.
A heap of flip-flops could not
hold steady, little
poems fluttering in the heart.
Was it the will of God?
The stampede was the anathema
of hunger, the curse of a
whore was working.
Instead of food and alms,
a mass burial makes
me insane.
Was it possible that spring
was far behind? When brassica
blooms, will you forget? Is it not true?
Satish Verma
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