Fractious smokescreen
between celestial reflection
and contempt
floats on a shaken rug.
You cannot stand still
incognito.
The indictment stinks
for the impoverished vicitims
who make history through to the bones.
Grappling after theft,
interstitial existence falls like glass pieces
nowhere, black and bleeding.
A robust chorus rises against resistance
of strips. The ocean rides on snails.
Hills threaten to go partisan ways.
The division had started the perennial conflict.
A pebble is thrown in the pond.
A racist moon becomes a living doll.
Satish Verma
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