DEATH ON GRASS

Sometime, somewhere I will break
into many moons -
an oblique answer to a terrestrial question
of a pale river.

The heat is on, because of the
fatal mistakes. Violence has pregnancy.
Walls stand alone without a roof
hauling the suicidal balloons.

Blue berries are becoming scarce.
Vision short, we cannot see in the night.
Crystals in candlelight become green,
images creeping tall under the trees.

Of total failure, the chemistry of love
patches up with arithmetic of aristocracy.
Spoils the show of neutrality
in sky, hurting the gods.

I am stuck with autistic heroes
in poor desert of a waking sun.
Death on grass will never show
the second birth of the pain.

Satish Verma