Drowning her children
back in her womb,
a big tear rolls down the cheek of earth.
She was sitting on broken bones
to watch the terror,
ear for ear to listen,
eye for eye to see.
Hope was becoming ephemeral.
Nostalgia for breathing in,
the scented grains of death’s fruit,
no analogue, no relics of blood
and a ceremony of water, soil and wood.
All gone. It is a battered rubble
back to back, autoclaved, clean.
We walk back, heads bowed, shaven,
absolutely fouled with no immediate answer.
Was there a dialogue on non-death?
Satish Verma
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