THE SHELTER

Your own shelter of erected pretentions is beautiful
but you don’t want to come out from the cage.
Fear of falling from the cliff, cloud and sky
on the claws and pincers is terrific
which could maul, lacerate and dismember you,

You want to hide behind the arguments.
Somebody starts knocking at your head like a woodpecker
Why don’t you stick to a legend like others?


Downhill you have to come to primordial
touch of soil and smell the odor of naked bodies
toiling for seeds. Gnarled hands open the jammed
windows.

Will you know the secret of a bright lamp post
where on some night, migratory birds
were falling dead? Black fog is floating
and you are still standing on the spot from where
you started.

Satish Verma